93. ‘Più volte Amor m’avea già detto: Scrivi’

How often Love’s already said to me: ‘Write,

write what you’ve seen in letters of gold,

of how I can make my followers turn pale,

and, in the same moment, be alive and dead.

There was a time you felt it yourself,

and were an example to the choir of love:

then other labours snatched you from my hand:

though I still touched you as you fled.

And if the lovely eyes, where I showed myself

to you, and where my sweetness stayed

after I had broken your hard heart,

remake my bow that shatters everything,

perhaps your face won’t always be dry:

for I feed myself on tears, as you know.’