184. ‘Amor, Natura, et la bella alma humile,’

Love, Nature, and the lovely humble soul,

where every virtue lives and reigns,

are my sworn enemies now: Love conspires

to bring about my death as is his custom:

Nature holds her by such a slender thread,

there is barely enough strength to sustain her:

she is so diffident, that she no longer deigns

to live on in this vile and wearisome world.

So that the life from hour to hour grows less

in those dear lovely chaste limbs

that are the mirrors of true gracefulness:

and if Mercy does not tighten Death’s rein,

alas, I see only too well what state vain hope

will come to, by which I used to live.