253. ‘O dolce sguardi, o parolette accorte,’

O sweet glances, O subtle speech,

now may I never see or hear you more?

O blonde hair with which Love snared

my heart, and, so caught, led it to its death:

O lovely face granted me by harsh fate,

that made me always sad, and never joyful:

O concealed deception, loving fraud,

to give a pleasure that only brought me pain!

And if sometimes those lovely gentle eyes

where my life and thoughts have their dwelling,

brought me perhaps some chaste sweetness,

suddenly, Fortune sent horsemen or ships

always ready to do me a disservice,

dispelling all my good, carrying me far away.