217. ‘Già desïai con sí giusta querela’

Once I hoped, lamenting so justly

making such fervent verses heard,

that pity’s warmth might be felt

in that hard heart that freezes in mid-summer:

and that the cruel cloud, that chills

and veils it, might disperse with the breeze

of my ardent voice, or others might hate her

for hiding those eyes that destroy me.

Yet I seek no pity for myself, nor hatred

for her: I do not wish it, nor is it possible

(such are my stars, and my cruel fate):

but I sing her heavenly beauty, so

that, when I’m free of this flesh, the world

will know the sweetness of my death.