With yearning such as slaves must hardly know
for liberty—or ships that yearn to go
to harbor—I wait, alas! from day to day
for you, my gracious love, to return this way.
At last, the long-awaited end of sadness;
at last, the long-postponed eternal gladness
of seeing you. But oh, such endless waiting!
That's the point of my vain, passionate berating.
Cruel, cruel. Aren't you the one who promised, when
you wrote, that you would come back, oh so soon?
Do you have so little memory of me
that you break your solemn vow so easily?
How can you dare abuse me? How can you wrong
she who has stayed loyal for so long?
If you're still lingering near the crescent shore
of the river Po, it might be true that your
dear heart has been embraced by other fire,
changing my own for some other desire,
and forgetting through such hard inconstancy
the loyalty that you had promised me.
If this is so—if it is really true
that faith and goodness have abandoned you—
I shouldn't be the slightest bit surprised
if you feel no compassion for my cries.
Hard thoughts—so many!—and hard fears must come
to the poor souls where Love has made a home;
though I'll believe, because of our former love,
that you'd find it impossible to leave.
I'll vow, again, my faith in your own faith,
esteem your constancy more than my breath.
What if you're lost alone on an unknown road,
or awful sickness now dwells in your blood—
though I doubt that, because I have such skill
at praying to the Gods to keep you well;
they would be crueler than tigers in a spat
to send you any sickness after that,
(though silly, faithless, cruel inconstancy
does deserve some suffering!) Well, as for me,
my faith is strong. And it will guard you well
from all the evils that might send you ill.
Even He whose empire is the highest sky
would not think worse of me me because I pray
for you. When my tears and cries go pouring down
for your sake, He'll take back His angry frown.
I've lived to serve Him all my whole life long,
and I don't think that I've done any wrong—
(except to make you a god; Love forces me
to place you where only a God should be).
And now the moon has closed her silver horns
twice, since the day you promised to return—
with no news of you at all. I haven't heard
anything good, or bad—not a single word.
If you've made up your mind to stay away
because you've fallen in love, please let me say
that if you ever did find another love,
she would not earn the fame of the one you have—
whether in virtue, beauty, skill or graces.
Quite well-known people, and in many places,
have (wrongly, I think!) chosen to give me fame—
but who can guard forever her own name?
I'm lucky to be flattered here in France
(far more than I'm happy with), and by fame enhanced,
And not just here: where the Carps and Pyrenees
cup their rich land between surrounding seas,
and by the Rhine, between those shores that roll
through the lovely country where you used to stroll,
they've heard of me. And you've told me it is so—
that I hold some glory, in the eyes of those who know.
So come, taste well what others now desire;
rest at the goal to which so many aspire.
You know that elsewhere there's no one like me!
I don't say others might not have more beauty—
but that no woman will ever love you more
than I do now, or bring you higher honor.
Many great lords have tried to win my love,
offering themselves to please me, and to prove
their worth. They've jousted, gamed, tried fine devices
to win my favor by their enterprises—
and in spite of that, I care so very little,
I've hardly even thanked them for their trouble.
Only you are all my bad and all my good;
you are my all. Save you, it's understood:
nothing can please my mind. There's nothing left,
I'm abandoned by all pleasure, lost, bereft.
No more delight; only grief and care seize me.
Regret and complaint will keep me company.
And in this state, among such miseries,
I wish a thousand times for Death to ease
my mood. Your absence, love, is very wrong;
it's held me in this state two whole months long,
not living. Dying. Desire makes me pay
each time it kills—ten thousand times a day.
Come back now, if you feel you need to see
me once again. But if it comes to be
that death finds the way here before you do,
and takes away my soul, that so loves you—
come to me once, at least. Dress all in black.
Circle around my tomb: forward, then back.
And there you, if it pleases God, will find
engraved on the white marble these four lines:
I BURNED FOR YOU, MY LOVE, UNTIL DESIRE
CONSUMED MY BODY. THEN THE FLAMES GREW HIGHER.
THEY BURN UNDER THE ASHES OF THIS PYRE.
ONLY YOUR TEARS CAN EVER QUENCH THE FIRE.