57. ‘Mie venture al venir son tarde et pigre’

My luck is always late and slow to reach me,

hope is uncertain, desire grows and increases,

so that I grieve with loss or anticipation,

and it is quicker than a tigress to depart.

Alas, snow will be black and hot,

the sea without waves, fish on the hills,

and the sun set where Tigris and Euphrates

issue together from their source,

before I can find peace in my mind,

or Love or my lady alter their ways,

who have joined in wrong against me.

And any sweetness follows such bitterness

that through disdain the taste is lost:

I will never know what’s better from them.