246. ‘L’aura che ’l verde lauro et l’aureo crine’

The breeze that with its gentle sighing moves

the green laurel and the curling gold,

makes the spirit wander from the body

at seeing her fresh and pretty looks.

This white rose born among sharp thorns,

when shall we see its equal in this world,

this glory of our age? O living Jove,

command that I die before her, I pray:

so I may not see that great earthly harm,

the world left here without its sun,

and my eyes, that have no other light:

and my soul without thought of any other,

and my ears that cannot hear any other,

lacking her sweet virtuous words.