When I beheld this tickle trustles state
Of vaine worlde’s glorie, flitting to and fro,
And mortall men tossed by troublous fate
In restless seas of wretchednesse and woe,
I wish I might this wearie life foregoe,
And shortly turn into my happie rest,
Where my free spirit might not anie moe
Be vext with sights that doo her peace molest.
And ye, faire ladie, in whose bounteous brest
All heavenly grace and vertue shrined is,
When ye these rymes doe read, and vow the rest,
Loath this base world, and thinke of heaven’s bliss;
And though ye be the fairest of God’s creatures,
Yet thinke that Death shall spoyle your goodly features.
_Translation of_ EDMUND SPENSER. FRANCESCO PETRARCA, 1304–1374.