Three Sonnets

Three Sonnets

La Compiuta Donzella


(1)

A la stagion che ’l mondo foglia e fiora acresce gioia a tut[t]i fin’ amanti: vanno insieme a li giardini alora, che gli auscelletti fanno dolzi canti; la franca gente tutta s’inamora, e di servir ciascun trag[g]es’ inanti, ed ogni damigella in gioia dimora; e me, n’abondan mar[r]imenti e pianti. Ca lo mio padre m’ha messa ’n er[r]ore, e tenemi sovente in forte doglia: donar mi vole a mia forza segnore, ed io di ciò non ho disio né voglia, e ’n gran tormento vivo a tutte l’ore; però non mi ralegra fior né foglia.

(2)

Lasciar vor[r]ia lo mondo e Dio servire e dipartirmi d’ogne vanitate, però che veg[g]io crescere e salire mat[t]ezza e villania e falsitate, ed ancor senno e cortesia morire e lo fin pregio e tutta la bontate: ond’io marito non vor[r]ia né sire, né stare al mondo, per mia volontate. Membrandomi c’ogn’om di mal s’adorna, di ciaschedun son forte disdegnosa, e verso Dio la mia persona torna. Lo padre mio mi fa stare pensosa, ca di servire a Cristo mi distorna: non saccio a cui mi vol dar per isposa.

(3)

Ornato di gran pregio e di valenza e risplendente di loda adornata, forte mi pregio più, poi v’è in plagenza d’avermi in vostro core rimembrata, ed invitate a mia poca posseza per acontarvi, s’eo sono insegnata, come voi dite, c’ag[g]io gran sapienza, ma certo non ne son [tanto] amantata. Amantata non son como vor[r]ia di gran vertute né di placimento; ma, qual ch’i’ sia, ag[g]io buono volere di servire con buona cortesia a ciascun ch’ama sanza fallimento: ché d’Amor sono e viogliolo ubidire.

Three Sonnets

Samantha Pious


(1)

The jolly pretty lovely lusty month of May when every heart springs buds begins to rise the little birds sing sweetly and completely in their Latin lingo and maken melodye all night with open eyes and every noble free frank French good person falls in love and strives to serve his lady who lives in great joy gaudia rejoicing jouissance: I’m miserable. I may be going crazy. My father’s thrown me into sin and error — he holds me down in torture torment terror: a lord and a master are his intent. My will and my desire won’t consent! I live in greater agony each day. Therefore I have no joy this month of May.

(2)

To leave the world behind is what I want: forsake its vanity and serve my God, for mad insane base villainy and falsehood swell rise take wing from out Pandora’s box. Intelligence and courtesy are dying and prix worth goodness generosity: therefore I want no master and no lord nor profane and urbane mundanity. Remembering the evil which adorns all men, I scorn despise abhor them in contempt and it’s toward God my soul self body flee. My father hurts wounds puts me in grave pain: from Christ he turns me to the world again, and I don’t know whose wife, whose bride, I’ll be.

(3)

Oh lord arrayed in prix price value valiance, in shining praise and worthiness adorned, I prize myself more worthy, since you’re pleased to have me in your heart, and you implore what little strength I have, to tell you, if I can, if I am Latin literate, because (you say) I have intelligence — but certainly I’m not adorned in such cloak mantle fine array. Mantled am I not, as I would like to be, in virtue or the courtier’s art of pleasing; whatever I may be, I have good will alway to serve all those in courtly courtesy who truly love withouten lie deceiving: for Love’s I am, and him I will obey.