OF PETRARCH.
71
Well mayst thou blush, my song,
To leave the rural throng,
And fly thus artless to my Laura's ear;
But, were thy poet's fire
Ardent as his desire,
Thou wert a song that heaven might stoop to hear.
Se tu aveffi ornamenti quant' ai voglia,
Potrefti arditamente
Ufcir del bofco, e gir' infra la gente.
