1 Small are the seeds Fate does unheeded sow
Of slight beginnings to important ends;
Whilst wonder, which does best our reverence show
To Heaven, all reason's sight in gazing spends.
2 For from a day's brief pleasure did proceed,
A day grown black in Lombard histories,
Such lasting griefs as thou shalt weep to read,
Though even thine own sad love had drained thine eyes.
3 In a fair forest, near Verona's plain,
Fresh as if Nature's youth chose there a shade,
The Duke, with many lovers in his train,
Loyal and young, a solemn hunting made.
4 Much was his train enlarged by their resort
Who much his grandsire loved, and hither came
To celebrate this day with annual sport,
On which by battle here he earned his fame,
5 And many of these noble hunters bore
Command amongst the youth at Bergamo;
Whose fathers gathered here the wreaths they wore,
When in this forest they interred the foe.
6 Count Hurgonil, a youth of high descent,
Was listed here, and in the story great;
He followed honour, when towards death it went;
Fierce in a charge, but temperate in retreat.
7 His wondrous beauty, which the world approved,
He blushing hid, and now no more would own
(Since he the Duke's unequalled sister loved)
Than an old wreath when newly overthrown.
8 And she, Orna the shy! did seem in life
So bashful too, to have her beauty shown,
As I may doubt her shade with Fame at strife,
That in these vicious times would make it known.
9 Not less in public voice was Arnold here;
He that on Tuscan tombs his trophies raised;
And now Love's power so willingly did bear,
That even his arbitrary reign he praised.
10 Laura, the Duke's fair niece, enthralled his heart,
Who was in court the public morning glass,
Where those, who would reduce nature to art,
Practised by dress the conquests of the face.