Having sighed a thousand times for your love
Without your harshness being at all softened by it;
I’ve called on death so much, that a bitter illness
Offered me the help I had wanted:

I was already a pale, disfigured colour,
I’d lost spirit, speech and hearing,
And thought myself fortunate in the ending of my life
To see end, too, the harshness of an immeasurable evil.

But you, who are more to me than inhuman death,
Do not permit that with so little pain
I should be chastised for my temerity:
Oh, let me die! Since my offence
In attempting to make love to a goddess
Deserves much more than suffering and death.