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O you, who hears in scattered verse the sound Of all those sighs with which my heart I fed, When I, by youthful error was misled, Unlike my present self in passion drowned; Who hears the woes, the pleadings that abound Throughout my song, by hopes and vain griefs bred; If ever true love its influence over you shed, Oh ! let your pity be with pardon crowned. But now full well I see how to the crowd For a long time I proved a public jest: E'ven by myself my folly is allowed: And of my vanity what's left is shame, Repentance, and a knowledge deep impressed, That worldly pleasure is a passing dream. Francesco Petrarca. Translated by the Rev. Nott |
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