Firstpublished:1510 in Canzoni nove con alcune scelte ... (Antico), no. 37 Description: a Frottola to lyrics from Petracha's Canzoniere No. 129. (Only the two first stanzas of 6 are in the original printed source).
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Original text and translations
Italian text
Francesco Petrarcha
Poem 129 from Cansoniere (Stanzas 1 - 2 of 6)
Di pensier in pensier, di monte in monte
mi guida Amor, ch'ogni segnato calle
provo contrario a la tranquilla vita.
Se 'n solitaria piaggia, o rivo, o fonte,
se 'nfra duo poggi siede ombrosa valle,
ivi s'acqueta l'alma sbigottita;
et come Amor l'envita,
or ride, or piange, or teme, or s'assecura;
e 'l volto che lei segue ov'ella il mena
si turba et rasserena,
et in un esser picciol tempo dura;
onde a la vista huom di tal vita experto
diria: Questo arde, et di suo stato è incerto.
Per alti monti et per selve aspre trovo
qualche riposo: ogni habitato loco
è nemico mortal degli occhi miei.
A ciascun passo nasce un penser novo
de la mia donna, che sovente in gioco
gira 'l tormento ch'i' porto per lei;
et a pena vorrei
cangiar questo mio viver dolce amaro,
ch'i' dico: Forse anchor ti serva Amore
ad un tempo migliore;
forse, a te stesso vile, altrui se' caro.
Et in questa trapasso sospirando:
Or porrebbe esser vero? or come? or quando?
English translation
Translation by A.S.Kline
Love leads me on, from thought to thought,
from mountain to mountain, since every path blazed
proves opposed to the tranquil life.
If there is a stream or a fountain on a solitary slope,
if a shadowed valley lies between two hills,
the distressed soul calms itself there:
and, as Love invites it to,
now smiles, or weeps, or fears, or feels secure:
and my face that follows the soul where she leads
is turbid and then clear,
and remains only a short time in one mode:
so that a man expert in such a life would say
at the sight of me: 'He is on fire, and uncertain of his state.'
I find some repose in high mountains
and in savage woods: each inhabited place
is the mortal enemy of my eyes.
At every step a new thought of my lady
is born, which often turns the suffering
I bear to joy, because of her:
and, as often as I wish
to alter my bitter and sweet life,
I say: 'Perhaps Love is saving you
for a better time:
perhaps you are dear to another, hateful to yourself.'
And with this, sighing, I continue:
'Now can this be true? And how? And when?'
Italian text
English translation