153. ‘Ite, caldi sospiri, al freddo core,’

shatter the ice that chokes her pity,

and if mortal prayers rise to heaven,

let death or mercy end my sorrow.

Go, sweet thoughts, and speak to her

of what her lovely gaze does not include:

so if her harshness or my stars still hurt me,

I shall be free of hope and free of error.

Through you it can be said, perhaps not fully,

how troubled and gloomy is my state,

as hers is both peaceful and serene.

Go safely now that Love goes with you:

and you may lead fortune smiling here,

if I can read the weather by my sun.

Notes