Sonnets
SONNET XXVII
Were I that I that once was worthy of Love
(Of whom I find naught now save the remembrance)
And if the lady had another semblance,
Then would this sort of sign please me enough.
Do thou, who art from Love’s clear realm returned,
Where Mercy giveth birth to hopefulness,
Judge as thou canst from my dim mood’s distress
What bowman and what target are concerned.
Straining his are, behold Amor the bowman
Draweth so gaily that to see his face
You’d say he held his rule for merriment,
Yet hear what’s marvellous in all intent:
The smitten spirit pardoneth his foeman
Which pardon doth that foeman’s power debase.
Anyone who can, from the text as it stands, discern what
happens to whom in the final lines of this sonnet, is at liberty
to emend my translation.
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