They mock my toil--the nymphs and am'rous swains-- <br />And whence this fond attempt to write, they cry, <br />Love-songs in language that thou little know'st? <br />How dar'st thou risque to sing these foreign strains? <br />Say truly. Find'st not oft thy purpose cross'd, <br />And that thy fairest flow'rs, Here, fade and die? <br />Then with pretence of admiration high-- <br />Thee other shores expect, and other tides, <br />Rivers on whose grassy sides <br />Her deathless laurel-leaf with which to bind <br />Thy flowing locks, already Fame provides; <br />Why then this burthen, better far declin'd? <br />Speak, Canzone! for me.--The Fair One said who guides <br />My willing heart, and all my Fancy's flights, <br />'This is the language in which Love delights.'<br /><br />William Cowper<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-iii-canzone-translated-from-milton/
