Sonetto 24
Gaspara Stampa
Vengan quante fur mai, lingue, & ingegni,
Quanti fur stili in prosa, e quanti in versi,
E quanti in tempi, e paesi diversi
Spirti di riverenza, e d’honor degni.
Non fia mai, che descrivan l’ire e sdegni,
Le noie, e i danni, che’n Amor soffersi,
Perche nel vero tanti, e tali fersi,
Che passan tutti gli amorosi segni.
E non fia anche alcun, che possa dire,
Anzi adombrar la schiera de’ diletti,
Ch’Amor, la sua mercè, mi fà sentire.
Voi, ch’ad amar per gratia sete eletti,
Non vi dolete dunque di patire,
Perche i martir d’Amor son benedetti.
Sonnet 24
Giulia Drago
Come every tongue, all minds that ever thought,
all hallowed styles in prose, all those in verse
and come from every time, and lands diverse,
those spirits who have read, and rhymed, and taught.
They’ll never write the scorn, the glances dark
that I have felt in love – its loss and spurn,
which all so grave and manifold did turn
they’re worse by far than passion’s usual mark.
And no, no one could ever come reveal
or sketch all those delights, in endless lines,
that Love, when he has willed, has made me feel.
You, whom grace has called to lovers’ eyes,
be unashamed, be unafraid of pain:
the saints of love will all be canonised.
