This book is a prose translation of the 366 poems that make up Petrarch's long-narrative-via-lyric, the "Rime Sparse." While it gains in intelligibility and translability (as the translator argues in a strong introduction) from being prose, it loses all of the attraction that the poetry has as such (although of course those things wouldn't translate) and is thus a long, repetitive series of misogynistic and blasphemous complaints to Love and Laura. Until she dies, that is, and then we get a Dantean kind of Purgatorio and Paradiso effect, but man, it takes a while to get there. You can certainly see Petrarch's influence on most of the lyric writers in the English tradition, but it's important to note that most of them are playing against the conventions he popularized. So we have him to thank for, for instance, "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun," but primarily as the butt of the joke.
In general, I found this to be unpleasant reading.