As you see the rose on the branch in May
In her lovely youth, with her first flower
Making the sky jealous of its bright colour
When the Dawn with his tears makes the sky pink at start of day:
Grace and love rest in her blooms
Perfuming gardens and trees with her scent
But then, battered by the rain or too much heat,
Fading she dies, stripped of petal after petal:
Like this you were in your first youth and novelty
When earth and heaven honoured your beauty;
But Fate killed you, and now you are just ashes.
As funeral rites, receive my tears and wailing,
This vase full of milk, this basket full of flowers
So that living or dead your body should be only roses.