Sonnet 131

　　by Petrarch

　　 Translated by David Young

　　 I'd sing of Love in such a novel fashion

　　 that from her cruel side I would draw by force

　　 a thousand sighs a day， kindling again

　　 in her cold mind a thousand high desires；

　　 I'd see her lovely face transform quite often

　　 her eyes grow wet and more compassionate，

　　 like one who feels regret， when it's too late，

　　 for causing someone's suffering by mistake；

　　 And I'd see scarlet roses in the snows，

　　 tossed by the breeze， discover ivory

　　 that turns to marble those who see it near them；

　　 All this I'd do because I do not mind

　　 my discontentment in this one short life，

　　 but glory rather in my later fame.