My kindly fate, and a life made happy,
the clear days, and the tranquil nights,
the gentle sighs, and the sweet style
that alone sounded in my verse and rhyme,
suddenly changed to grief and weeping,
making me hate my life, and long for death.

Cruel, bitter, and inexorable Death,
you give me reason never to be happy,
but to live my life instead with weeping,
darkened days, and the saddened nights.
My heavy sighs will not go into rhyme,
and my harsh pain defeats every style.

What has become of my loving style?
It speaks of anger, it reasons about death.
Where are the verses, where is the rhyme,
the gentle thoughtful heart heard, and was happy:
where are the tales of love these many nights?
Now I talk and think of nothing but weeping.

Once my desire so sweetened my weeping,
it touched with sweetness all my sour style,
and kept me awake through the long nights:
now the weeping’s more bitter to me than death,
hoping no more for that glance, chaste and happy,
the noble subject of my lowly rhyme.

Love set a clear theme for my rhyme:
those lovely eyes, but now my weeping,
remembering with grief times that were happy:
so that I change my thoughts and my style,
and pray to you again, pallid Death,
to rescue me from such painful nights.

He has fled from me these cruel nights,
so have the usual sounds from my hoarse rhyme,
that knows no other theme than death,
so that my singing changes to weeping.
Love’s kingdom has no more varied style
that is as sad now as ever it was happy.

No one alive has ever been so happy,
no one lives more sadly these days and nights:
and he doubles the grief, in a double style
who draws from the heart such sad rhyme.
I lived on hope, now I live by weeping,
and have no hope against Death, but Death.

Death has killed me, and only Death
can make me see that face again, so happy
that the sighs pleased me and the weeping,
the sweet breeze, and the rain of nights,
while I wove choice thoughts in rhyme,
Love elevating my weak style.

Now if I had so pity-inducing a style
that I could bring my Laura back from Death,
as Orpheus did Eurydice, without rhyme,
then I would live, and be still more happy!
If it cannot be, one of these nights
will close for ever my two founts of weeping.

Love, I’ve had many years, and much weeping
about my grave ills in the saddest style,
nor from you do I ever hope for kinder nights:
and so I’m moved to pray to Death
to take me from here, and make me happy,
to where she is, whom I sing and weep in rhyme.

If it can rise so high, in weary rhyme,
to reach her who’s beyond pain and weeping,
and with her beauty makes heaven happy,
she’ll understand my altered style,
which pleased her perhaps before Death
brightened her day, and brought me dark night.

Oh you who sigh for easier nights,
who hear of Love or speak of him in rhyme,
pray he’ll no longer be deaf to me, sweet Death,
refuge from misery and end of weeping:
that he’ll change for once his ancient style,
that makes men sad, and could make me happy.

He could make me happy in a single night:
and, in harsh style and in anguished rhyme,
I pray my weeping will end in death.