64. ‘Se voi poteste per turbate segni’

If you, with signs of your unease,

lowering your eyes, bowing your head,

or being more ready than anyone to flee,

turning your face from honest worthy prayers,

or by some other ingenuity, seek escape

so from my heart, from which Love grafts

more branches of that first laurel, I’d agree

there was just cause for your disdain:

for a noble plant in arid soil

is embarrassed by it, so naturally

delights in being moved somewhere else:

and though your destiny prevents you

being elsewhere, you can at least provide

that you’re not always somewhere you hate.