When I see your blond head in its laurel crown
and hear your melancholy lutestrings sing
with a sound that would seduce almost anything,
even rocks or trees; when I hear of your renown,
all the ten thousand ornaments that surround
your virtue, endowing you more than a king
so the highest praise grows dim with your sparkling-
then my heart cries, in a secret passion of her own.
Since all your graces are well-loved and known,
since everyone's esteem for you has grown
so strong- shouldn't these graces help you start
to love? To all the virtues that make you great
adding knowledge of my own pitiable state,
so that my love can softly enflame your heart?