by Torquato Tasso (1544 - 1595)
Translation by Edward Fairfax (1580 - 1635)

Sovente, allor
Language: Italian (Italiano) 
Sovente, allor che in su gli estivi ardori
giacean le pecorelle a I'ombra assise,
ne la scorza de' faggi e de gli allori
segnò l'amato nome in mille guise,
e de' suoi strani et infelici amori 
gli aspri successi in una scorza incise,
e in rileggendo poi le proprie note
rigò di belle lagrime le gote.

E dicea piangendo: "In voi serbate 
questa dolente istoria, amiche piante;
perché se fia ch' a le vostr'ombre grate
giarnai soggiorni alcun fedele amante,
senta svegliarsi al cor dolce pietate
de le sventure mie sì varie e tante, 
e dica: Ah troppo ingiusta empia mercede
diè Fortuna et Amor a sì gran fede!

"Forse avverrà, se 'l Ciel benigno ascolta
affettuoso alcun prego mortale, 
che venga in queste selve anco tal volta
quegli a cui di me forse or nulla cale;
e rivolgendo gli occhi ove sepolta 
giacerà questa spoglia inferma e frale,
tardo premio conceda a i miei martiri
di poche lagrimette e di sospiri."

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Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):

Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):

  • ENG English (Edward Fairfax) , "But oft"


Researcher for this page: John Versmoren

This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 24
Word count: 162

But oft
Language: English  after the Italian (Italiano) 
But oft, when underneath the green-wood shade
Her flocks lay hid from Phoebus' scorching rays,
Unto her knight she songs and sonnets made,
And them engrav'd in bark of beech and bays;
She told how Cupid did her first invade, 
How conquer'd her, and ends with Tancred's praise:
And when her passion's writ she over read,
Again she mourn'd, again salt tears she shed.- 

You happy trees, for ever keep (quoth she)
This woeful story in your tender rind; 
Another day under your shade, may be,
Will come to rest again some lover kind,
Who if these trophies of my griefs he see,
Shall feel dear pity pierce his gentle mind. 
With that she sigh'd, and said - Too late I prove
There is no truth in fortune, trust in love: 

Yet may it be (if gracious heav'ns attend
The earnest suit of a distressed wight) 
At my entreat they will vouchsafe to send 
To these huge deserts that unthankful knight;
That when to earth the man his eyes shall bend,
And see my grave, my tomb, and ashes light, 
My woeful death his stubborn heart may move,
With tears and sorrows to reward my love.

Text Authorship:

Based on:

Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):

    [ None yet in the database ]


Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 24
Word count: 195