I. Many people blame me because I do not sing more often. But he who thus accuses me knows not how long I have been kept in dire grief by her who enthralls my heart, wherefore I now lose all joy, such affliction does she cause me.
II. Yet if my lady was sweet and kind to me at first, now does she not summon or receive me except as she does others. Because she knows that I love her truly, how badly, alas! does she requite me. Love will be remiss if it pardons her this wrong.
III. From every joy does my lady cut me off and no honour is it to her, for with some sweet lie could she render me kindly aid. Now I know that that distant suit —whereof I have lamented so much that shame and dishonour are thereby mine— is naught but foolishness.
IV. Shall I depart from her? Never! for her worth and nobility prevent and impede me when I am minded to love elsewhere; love steals into every corner of my heart as water does into the sponge. Ever will grief please me, however much it may distract and stir me.
V. Now do I desire love to assail me and to wage war on me night and day; from its attack, never do I desire respite. And if I do not attain all that I desire, she who torments me is such that there is no pleasure in the whole world which can be as sweet to me as my affliction.
VI. It behoves me not to fear the calumny or the gossip of the jealous, for provided only that I bear my lady ever in my thoughts, none can do me hurt; for the care which makes me rejoice nourishes me more than any other food, wherefore I cannot allow my heart to become negligent.
VII. To all, O poem, can you truly say that there would be no defect in my song, provided that my lady (whom joy avail!) did but desire to aid me with her love.
