Up, up, let us therein
Muscles and veins renew,
Preparing vigour for
The old and weary too.
In gay festivities,

In laughter and in jest,
Let us pass by, pass by
Him whose consuming zest
In sum and number lies,
Him known as Time below,
And drinking, drinking, send
Care unto Jericho !

Who water drinks

But vainly thinks

To win my grace.

Be water fresh and clear to see,

Or dim in deep abyss,

Her love will not entangle me,

The tiresome little Miss.

This silly one who often flaunts

Capricious, saucy ways,

Doth with her proud and noisy vaunts
And with her insolence and lies
Turn upside down both earth and skies.
And banks and bridges she doth break,
And stormy showers she doth down-shake,
Green, flowery fields are in her wake
Forlorn, and tenderest blossoms quake.
About each steadfast wall

Her ruthless downpours rage,

And of their fatal fall

To ruin is presage.

The Mamelukes may praise

il soldan de' Mammalucchi,
ne l' Ispano mai si stucchi
d'innalzar quelle del Tago,
ch' io per me non ne son vago.
E se a sorte alcun de' miei
fosse mai cotanto ardito
che bevessene un sol dito,
di mia man lo strozzerei.
Vadan pur, vadano a svellere

la cicoria e i raperonzoli

certi magri mediconzoli

che con l'acqua ogni mal pensan di espellere. Da mia masnada

lungi sen vada

ogni bigoncia,

che d'acque acconcia

colma si sta.

L'acqua cedrata

di limoncello

sia sbandeggiata

dal nostro ostello.

De' gelsomini

non faccio bevande,

ma tesso ghirlande

su questi miei crini :

de l' Aloscia e del Candiero

non ne bramo e non ne chero.
I sorbetti ancorchè ambrati,
e mille altre acque odorose,
son bevande da svogliati

da femine leziose.

Vino, vino a ciascun bever bisogna,

se fuggir vuole ogni danno ;

ι

non mi par mica vergogna

tra bicchieri impazzir sei volte l'anno.

The waters of the Nile,
And Spaniards boast the while
Of Tagus constantly:

These have no charms for me!
But, if one of my band
Should dare to quaff a drop,
At strangling I'd not stop,
I'd do it with this hand!
Let certain skinny quacks
Seek herbs and chicories,
Since water they aver
Will cure each fell disease.

But merry crew

Of mine eschew

Each single vat
With water flat,
Filled to the brim.
And water, soured
By lemons, be
Forbidden in

Our hostelry.
Sweet jessamine

I do not care

To drink, but twine
About my hair.

Eggs beaten up in sugared milk
I neither fancy nor desire,
Nor unto syrups golden-hued
Nor scented waters do aspire;
These for a weakling's sips
Or woman's puling lips.

Wine, wine alone for him be named
Who would forget his grief and fear:
Within my cups I'm not ashamed
To drown my wits six times a year!

TOMMASO STIGLIANI, 1573-1651

UEL musico augellin che starsi scorge
dentr' al filato carcere distretto,

pianse più giorni il suo valor disdetto con voce che ascoltando angoscia porge; poi che per vera prova alfin s' accorge di che vaga tiranna ei sia soggetto, canta, e per entro al piccolo ricetto con vezzosi viaggi or china or sorge. "Non mi par," dice in sua favella, " strano che questa di beltà candida aurora far da me possa ogni dolor lontano; meravigliomi ben come, in quell' ora che prendo il cibo da sì bella mano, per soverchia dolcezza io non mi mora!”

VINCENZO DA FILICAIA, 1642-1707

TALIA, Italia, o tu, cui feo la sorte dono infelice di bellezza, ond' hai funesta dote d' infiniti guai,

che in fronte scritti per gran doglia porte;
deh, fossi tu men bella, o almen più forte,
onde assai più ti paventasse, o assai

t' amasse men chi del tuo bello ai rai
par che si strugga, e pur ti sfida a morte!

Ch' or giù dall' Alpi non vedrei torrenti scender d' armati, e del tuo sangue tinta bever l'onda del Po gallici armenti.

Nè te vedrei del non tuo ferro cinta pugnar col braccio di straniere genti, per servir sempre o vincitrice o vinta.

TOMMASO STIGLIANI, 1573-1651

T

HE tuneful little bird you see confined

Within a narrow cage, for many a day
Bewailed his loss and destiny unkind

In tones that filled his hearers with dismay.
But since he hath good proof of unto how
Gentle a tyranny he doth submit,

He sings, and in his tiny dwelling now
With pretty movements up and down doth flit,
Saying in his own language: "Verily,
I comprehend how beauty's dawn so fair
Sufficeth to keep sorrow far from me,
But marvel greatly how it is that I,
Feeding from such a lovely hand, can bear
Rapture so passing sweet and yet not die !"

VINCENZO DA FILICAIA, 1642-1707

I

TALIA, O Italia, upon whom

The fatal gift of beauty was bestowed, Dire heritage of endless woes that loom Writ clear upon thy forehead, bitter load! O wert thou stronger or less fair, then he Haply would fear thee more and love thee less Who, though to deadly strife provoking thee, Doth pine, inflamed with thy bright loveliness! Then down the Alps to-day I'd gaze upon No armèd hosts, hurled in torrential flow, No Gallic cattle drinking in the Po

Red with thy blood; I would not see thee don Strange armour, flaunt another's might, Ah me, Victress or vanquished, doomed to slavery!