When I was free, and cruel love
Had not yet taken hold in my marrow,
 I lived happily;
On every side thousands of young girls  
Would work hard with their gentle flames
   To make me fall in love.

But just as a handsome wild colt
Which has not felt the curb in his mouth
   Wanders far and wide by himself,
Having no care except with his proud foot
To trample with a thousand leaps the flowers and grass,
   Living in liberty;

Sometimes he runs along a fair riverbank,
Sometimes he wanders deep in a wild wood
   Or on some high mountain;
And on every side whinnying fillies
Make love to him, flattering him for nothing,
   He who cares nothing for it.

Just so I used to disdain the maids
That everyone thought fairest of the fair,
   Without responding to their wishes;
Then, I was in love with myself,
Happy and joyful, not wearing that pale colour
   Nor with tears in my eyes.

I had, written high on my brow
Together with honour, an agreeable daring
   Full of candid desire;
My imagination marched with my feet
Here, there, without fear or jealousy
   Living on my pleasure.

But as soon as through terrible misfortune
I saw your breast white as alabaster
   And your eyes, twin suns,
Your fine hair pouring down in waves,
And the fair lilies of your lips bordered
   With a hundred pink carnations,

Straightway I learned to be in service,
For liberty, the nurse of my life,
   Fled far from me;
Within your nets my earlier freedom
Was caught, so that it obeyed your fair eyes,
   A slave beneath you.

And then you put my two hands to the chain,
My neck to the vine and my heart to shame,
   Having no pity on me,
No more alas than a hostile corsair
Has pity – o proud fate! – on a convict
   Bound with a chain.

As a sign of your conquest you then placed 
Your two feet on my head, as conqueror,
   And took from my brow
Honour, shame, and my earlier boldness
Rendering my imprisoned soul a coward,
   Servant to your desires.

Avenging with one blow a thousand faults I’d committed
And the beauties whom, greatly in the wrong, I had held
   Before this in scorn
Who had begged me, instead now I beg you.
But as often as I beg for mercy from you,
   You are deaf to my cries

And respond no more than the fountain
Which showed Narcissus the image of his face
   Taking revenge on its bank
For the thousand beauteous nymphs in love
Which that boy, with his scornful manner,
   Had put to death.