Pietro Bembo (1470–1547)

Translated by James Glassford, of Dougalston

SWEET dream, to whom this stolen death I owe,

That steeped my sense, and bade my sorrow fly,

Say by what portal did’st thou leave the sky

A messenger of peace, to gladden woe?

What angel there had breathed of one so low

That moved thee on the wings of love to fly?

Since wearied and forsaken where I lie

None but thyself alone can help bestow.

Blest thou, who makest thus another blest,

Save that you ply your wings in too much haste,

And what you gave take back so soon again.

Ah, since the way you know, return at least,

And sometimes of that pleasure let me taste,

Which, but for thee, I would expect in vain.