Treasure Island

Francesco Petrarch

(1304-1374)

Quotations

  • ''Whyle I was abowte to chaunge myn olde lyff—
    What sorowe I suffred, dyseese, angre and stryff,
    Cracchynge myn here, my chekys all totare,
    Wrythynge my fyngres for angwysshe and care,
    Watrynge the erthe with my byttre salte teres
    That the crye of my syghes ascended to Goddys eres,
    My knees with myn handys grasped togedyre soore,
    And yitt I stode the same man I was afore
    Tyl a depe profounde remembraunce att the laste
    Hadd all my wrecchednesse afore myn eyn caste''
    Petrarch (1304-1374), Italian poet (FRANCESCO PETRARCA). Secretum (l. 36-40). OxBL—V. Oxford Book of Late Medieval Verse and Prose, The. Douglas Gray, ed. (1985) Clarendon Press.
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  • ''The eyes that drew from me such fervent praise,
    The arms and hands and feet and countenance
    Which made me a stranger in my own romance
    And set me apart from the well-trodden ways;''
    Petrarch (1304-1374), Italian poet (FRANCESCO PETRARCA). Sonnets to Laura in Death (l. 36-40). MoBrPo. The Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces. Vol. I. Maynard Mack, general ed. (5th ed., 1985) W. W. Norton.
  • ''Tell her, I'm sick of living; that I'm blown
    By winds of grief from the course I ought to steer,''
    Petrarch (1304-1374), Italian poet (FRANCESCO PETRARCA). Sonnets to Laura in Death (l. 36-40). . . The Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces. Vol. I. Maynard Mack, general ed. (5th ed., 1985) W. W. Norton.
  • ''Death had his grudge against me, and he got up in the way, like an
    armed robber, with a pike in his hand.''
    Petrarch (1304-1374), Italian poet (FRANCESCO PETRARCA). Sonnets to Laura in Death (l. 36-40). . . Oxford Book of Modern Verse, The, 1892-1935. William Butler Yeats, ed. (1936) Oxford University Press.
  • ''My flowery and green age was passing away, and I feeling a chill in
    the fires had been wasting my heart, for I was drawing near the
    hillside above the grave.''
    Petrarch (1304-1374), Italian poet (FRANCESCO PETRARCA). Sonnets to Laura in Death (l. 36-40). OxBL—V. Oxford Book of Modern Verse, The, 1892-1935. William Butler Yeats, ed. (1936) Oxford University Press.
  • ''Go, grieving rimes of mine, to that hard stone
    Whereunder lies my darling, lies my dear,
    And cry to her to speak from heaven's sphere.''
    Petrarch (1304-1374), Italian poet (FRANCESCO PETRARCA). Sonnets to Laura in Death (l. 36-40). . . The Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces. Vol. I. Maynard Mack, general ed. (5th ed., 1985) W. W. Norton.
  • ''Oh, may she deign to stand at my bedside
    When I come to die; and may she call to me
    And draw me to her in the blessed place!''
    Petrarch (1304-1374), Italian poet (FRANCESCO PETRARCA). Sonnets to Laura in Death (l. 36-40). NAWM-1. The Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces. Vol. I. Maynard Mack, general ed. (5th ed., 1985) W. W. Norton.
  • ''Great is my envy of you, earth, in your greed
    Folding her in invisible embrace,
    Denying me the look of the sweet face
    Where I found peace from all my strife at need!''
    Petrarch (1304-1374), Italian poet (FRANCESCO PETRARCA). Sonnets to Laura in Death (l. 36-40). NAWM-1. The Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces. Vol. I. Maynard Mack, general ed. (5th ed., 1985) W. W. Norton.
  • ''And I live on, but in grief and self-contempt,
    Left here without the light I loved so much,
    In a great tempest and with shrouds unkempt.''
    Petrarch (1304-1374), Italian poet (FRANCESCO PETRARCA). Sonnets to Laura in Death (l. 36-40). MoBrPo. The Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces. Vol. I. Maynard Mack, general ed. (5th ed., 1985) W. W. Norton.
  • ''What a grudge I am bearing the earth that has its arms about her,''
    Petrarch (1304-1374), Italian poet (FRANCESCO PETRARCA). Sonnets to Laura in Death (l. 36-40). NAWM-1. Modern British Poetry. Louis Untermeyer, ed. (7th rev. ed., 1962) Harcourt, Brace and Company.

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Petrarch

I


Diana was never more pleasing to her lover,
when, by a stroke of fate, he saw her naked,
shown in the deep pool of icy water,
than I was by the mountain shepherdess,
standing there to wash her delightful veil,
that keeps blonde, lovely hair from the wind’s stress,

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