…lover, not so much

Yet another Shakespeare sonnet today, titled My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun, to contrast the beautiful partner of the last post. I translated it to Italian on Jul 27 and 29 2010, as per the 19/9/10 11:22 (last edited that day at 11:23) file that gives the translations' histories as dated 27/7 and 29/7. Curiously, an index of poetic translations (index versionum poeticarum) marks it "facienda" and was created 11/1/2011 20:40 and edited 22/1/11 18:30. I guess I forgot to remove the "facienda" annotation? Diary has full translation, in an older version, under 27/8/10, so of course the annotation was wrong. On 27/7, I originally wrote «crini neri» then switched the words. Not sure if that was misremembering what I composed while lying in bed doing nothing ("poltrens"), or if I actually made that switch in my mind. I also wrote «Le bianche e rosse damascate rose / C’ho visto, non ved’io sulle sue gote; / E ne’ profumi v’è maggiore dose / D’ delizia che nel fiato…;», which I fix on 29/7 first thing in the morning, having risen from the bed at 9:48 as per diary. Let's see!

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips’ red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head; I have seen roses damaskt, red and white, But no such roses see I on her cheeks; And in some perfume there is more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks; I love to hear her speak, and yet I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go: My mistress when she walks treads on the ground; And yet by heaven I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

Son tutto tranne ’l sole gl’occhi suoi; Di sue labbra più rossi i corallini; Se bianca è neve, bigi i seni suoi; Capei son crini? In testa ha neri crini; Le bianche e rosse damascate rose C’ho visto, di sue guance sono fuore; E ne’ profumi v’è maggiore dose D’ delizia che ’n respir ch’ea manda fuore. La voce sua adoro, eppur so bene Che musica s’è molto più piacente; Non ho mai visto come dea sen vene: Calca la terra mia donna venente; Ma ’l mi’ amor raro è quanto, in mi’ opinione, Colei ch’inganna falso paragone.