I. I cannot understand why I am tormented, nor do I know where this love is which is so extolled, for I have not heard of it nor do I see or hear of it, but, judging by what I see, I find in it more injustice than justice. Yet I hear it called “perfect love” by those who invoke it, and this is the consolation which vexes and destroys me, and makes me love her who holds me prisoner and flees from me, and while fleeing assails and pursues me.II. I cannot depart, nor yet can I remain silent, for anger makes me give vent to my savage mood in immoderate words. I am so tormented that I make complaint, because I do not enjoy her whom I love more than the young hero Gui of Nanteuil loved the maiden Ayglentine, and I die of my love. I am quite beside myself (with rage) because we cannot both explain to the husband, and he bends his spouse to his will and uses her ill (?).
III. What then does flattery or ruse avail me? If she accepts me, I shall stay, and if she refuses I shall go my way, and I shall have to make use of the consolation of the poor wretch, such as Sir Folquet speaks of in his song, for I might seek mercy in Tortona, yonder beyond Alessandria, since I find no refuge here. And it will grieve me to leave her through a quarrel: I have but begun my enterprise, and it will be a pity if it is not brought to a conclusion.
IV. Gracious lady, I have been true and sincere and upright towards you and have brought you praise. Let us converse together gently and amiably, and listen to what I shall tell you on this occasion: I have loved you more than Andrew loved the queen; before I belong to myself or to another, I belong assuredly to you, now and henceforth. And you are not my sister or my cousin!
V. On the day that love chose both of us, your beauty gave me the pride of the peacock, who gazes upon the green and vermilion and blue (of his plumes) until in his pride he strays from the walls. This pride he keeps until, lowering his head, he sees his feet. And I imitate him when I see my lady, who with her fair countenance brings me joy and pride, until by her refusal she causes me distress.
VI. In Provence, when I attack and when I flee, I shout “Montferrat!”, the war-cry of the man I serve, and “Tortona!”, yonder beyond Alessandria.
