207. ‘Ben mi credea passar mio tempo omai’

I truly thought I would always spend my time

as all the years before now have been spent,

with no other studies, no new thoughts:

but now that my lady does not grant me

her former help, as she once did,

you see, Love, with what arts you honour me.

I don’t know what there is for me

but disdain, if I make myself a thief at my age

of that lovely graceful light

without which I’d not live in such pain.

I wish I’d acted in my youth

in the way I have to do now,

since youthful error is less shameful.

Those gentle eyes that used to give me life,

with their divine and noble beauty

were so courteous to me in the beginning,

that like a man without wealth of his own,

but secretly helped from outside,

I lived without offending anyone.

Now, though it troubles me,

I’ve become harmful and importunate:

since a poor starving man

does things that in a happier state

he blames in others.

If envy closes Pity’s hand against me,

being in love, and helpless, must excuse me.

I’ve already tried a thousand ways or more

to see if any mortal thing but her

could keep me alive a single day.

The spirit, since it has no rest elsewhere,

runs towards the angelic flames:

and I, who am made of wax, turn to fire:

and I turn my thoughts about

to where I might gaze on her I desire:

and as a bird on a branch

is soonest caught when least afraid,

so from her lovely face

I steal another and another glance:

nourish myself on that food and burn.

I feed on my own death, and live in flame.

Strange food, and marvellous salamander:

yet no miracle, since Love so wishes.

I was a happy lamb once

lying among the flock of lovers: now Love

and Fortune make an end of me, as usual:

like roses and violets

in the spring, and snow and ice in the winter.

So, if I do gain nourishment

here and there for my brief life,

she may well call it theft,

but so rich a lady should be content,

if another gains life from her, and she not feel it.

Who does not know how I’ve lived, and always lived,

from that day I first saw her lovely eyes,

which made me change my life and habits?

By searching earth and sea and every shore

who can discover all of human nature?

See, one lives on perfumes by the great river:

I, living here supply

fire and light and feed my spirit.

Love, I say to you truly,

it’s unworthy of a lord to be so mean.

You have your arrows and bow:

send death by your hand, and not because I yearn,

since dying well honours a life complete.

A flame enclosed burns hottest: and if it grows

it cannot be concealed in any way:

Love, I know this, I proved it at your hands.

You saw truly, how silently I burned:

now I annoy myself with my own cries,

that irritate those distant and near by.

O world, O idle thought:

what my harsh fate has led me to!

O from what wandering light

was that firm hope born in my heart,

with which she takes and binds me,

she who leads me through your power to my end!

Yours is the fault, and mine the hurt and pain.

So I bear the torment of loving truly,

and I beg pardon for another’s sin:

rather my own, who should have turned my eyes

from such great light, and closed my ears

to the siren sounds: and yet I don’t regret

that the heart overflows with such sweet poison.

I wait for him to shoot

the last shaft who hit me with the first:

and if I’m right it would be

a kind of pity to kill me soon,

since he is not disposed

to do other with me than he has already:

it’s good to die if by dying we escape from pain.

My song, I’ll remain

in the field, it’s dishonour to die while fleeing:

and I blame myself

for such woes: so sweet my fate,

weeping, sighing, and death.

Servant of Love, who reads this verse,

there’s no good in the world to match my ill.