TO A PAINTER OF OUR LADY, OF MOST EXCELLENT PENCIL.
If pencil, although grand in human wise, Could make a picture thus most beautiful, Where even clearest vision not refines Thy light, O admirable--yet in vain: How did the author of thy sovereign soul Proportion space to his creation fair! What grace he painted, and what loveliness! The scope more ample, greater was the hand. Was found within the sphere of purest light The pencil, schooled within the morning-star, When thou wert dawned, Aurora most divine? Yea, thus indeed it was; but verily The sky has not paid back thy cost to him Who spent in thee more light than it has now.
Feliciano loves me, and I hate him; Lizardo hates me, and I do adore him; For him who does not want me, do I cry, And him who yearns for me, I not desire. To him who me disdains, my soul I offer, And him who is my victim, I disdain. Him I despise who would enrich my honor, And him who doth contemn me, I'd enrich. If with offence the first I have displeased, The other doth displease by me offended-- And thus I come to suffer every way; For both are but as torments to my feelings-- This one with asking that which I have not, And that in not having what I'd ask.
Celia beheld a rose that in the walk Flourished in pride of springtime loveliness, And whose bright hues of carmine or of red Bathed joyfully its delicate countenance-- And said: Enjoy without the fear of fate The fleeting course of thy luxuriant age, Since will not death be able on the morrow. To take from thee what thou to-day enjoyest; And though he come within a little while, Still grieve thou not to die so young and fair: Hear what experience may counsel thee-- That fortunate 'tis to die being beautiful, And not to see the woe of being old.
This that thou seest, a deception painted, Which of art's excellence makes display, With curious counterfeit of coloring, Is an insidious cheating of the sense. This, wherewithin has flattery pretended To excuse the grim deformity of age, And vanquishing the rigor hard of time To triumph o'er oblivion and decay; Is but the shallow artifice of care, Is as a fragile flower within the wind; It is a useless guard 'gainst destiny; It is a foolish and an erring toil; 'Tis labor imbecile, and, rightly scanned, Is death, is dust, is shadow, and is naught.