133. ‘Amor m’à posto come segno a strale,’

Love placed me as a target for his arrow,

like snow in sunlight, or wax in the fire,

like a cloud in the wind: and I am hoarse already,

Lady, calling for your mercy: and you indifferent.

The mortal blow issued from your eyes,

against which no time or place helps me:

from you alone proceed, and it seems to you

a game, the sun and wind and fire that make me so.

Your thoughts are arrows, and your face the sun,

and desire is fire: with which joint weapons

Love pierces me, dazzles me and melts me:

and your angelic singing and your speech,

with your sweet spirit from which I’ve no defence,

are the breeze (l’aura) before which my life flies.