In melancholy passion you delight,
Shedding tears brings you joy,
You simmer in the vain flame of imagination
And hide your despondence in a silent heart.
 
Believe me, you do not love, inexperienced dreamer!
O, if you seek despair,
Understood the terrible madness of love;
When its heavy poison boiled in your blood;
 
When in the long hours of a sleepless night,
In bed, slowly tormented by anguish,
You called the deceiving rest,
Closing your mournful eyes in vain,
 
Under hot covers, sobbing, you embraced
And withered in the rage of fruitless desires,
Believe me, then you would not have fed
Your ungrateful dreams!
 
No! No! In tears falling at the feet
Of your haughty mistress,
Trembling, pale, feverish,
It was then that you cried out to the gods:
 
“Return to me, O gods, my saddened mind,
And take from me this fatal image!
I’ve loved enough, please give me rest!”
But gloomy love and an unforgettable image
Will remain with you forever.