355. ‘O tempo, o ciel volubil, che fuggendo’

O time, O fickle sky, that flickers by,

deceiving blind and miserable mortals,

O days swifter than arrows or the wind,

now from experience I know your guile:

but I excuse you, and blame myself,

since Nature unfurled your wings for flight,

gave eyes to me, and I held them fixed

on my ills, from which came grief and shame.

And I know the hour: it’s already past,

for turning towards a more secure place,

and putting an end to infinite pain:

the soul does not leave your yoke, Love,

but its own ills: with what labour you know:

virtue comes not by chance, but by true art.