342. ‘Del cibo onde ’l signor mio sempre abonda,’

I feed my weary heart on that food,

sorrow and grief, in which my lord abounds,

and often I tremble, and often turn pale,

thinking of my deep and bitter wound.

But she, who in her life had no rival,

comes to the bed where I languish,

so that it’s pain to me to dare to look,

and with pity she sits on the edge.

She dries my eyes, with that hand that roused

such desire in me, and with her words

brings sweetness never felt by mortal man:

‘What point in knowledge, I say, that brings distress?

No more weeping: have you not wept enough?

Now you might live, since I am not dead!’