I am glad to see the bushes
turning green amid the woods
and the branches with their foliage:
nightingales beneath the leaves
sing of love that gives me grief,
but I'm pleased although it grieves me,
I am pleased that she would love me,
she whom I desire and want.
I desire her, though she's haughty,
toward me (have I ever been
haughty to her?) I accept her.
I accept her to the point
where I give all others up
for her, whom God hasn't taken
but may he just make her willing
to accept my daily love.
It imprisons, but I take it,
though her prison is so bad:
she will give me a dismissal
from the accusations made:
she is wrong, but I forgive,
and my heart, too, is forgiving:
I know she's so good and pretty
every evil's, good to me.
Dear to me are ills she gives me
heaven's sake! one gift I ask:
since my mouth is very hungry,
feed it, with a little kiss ...
as I want a great reward
from the one who can reward me
and, when I go on with business,
she will change my goal and aim.
My direction changes, swerving,
but I don't let my heart swerve,
my true heart goes on desiring
more than all of my desires
all for her for whom I sigh,
and since she is never sighing
I know that my death is in her
when her beauty's in my view.
I see death, and can't rejoice,
nor can I see joy in dying
but I am so good at suffering
I can suffer to my goal.