When, with airy wings, gold
Turns its false back on me,
-- And it is only seldom well-disposed toward musicians --
I remain unperturbed;
To my disgrace, I never run
After the unfaithful fugitive;
Who would in life
Strive for something adversarial?

  No! may it continue to beguile 
The world with sound and radiance!
I bind the compulsion of my anxieties
Upon the back of the winds,
And instead of gold’s trumpery
I take my lute into my hands
And, in the flaming urgency
Of my bosom, sing of love.

  As soon as the fugitive sees himself scorned
He returns with flattery,
And, early and late, he whispers in my ear:
Put down your lute!
Upon a shimmering pathway he offers himself
Anew as a servant to me,
And chases the lovely muses
From my bosom.

  Gold, disloyal villian!
Leave off beguiling me,
And do not dare to disturb my peace
With flattering speeches!
My lute is worth more than gold to me,
It only woos for sweeter recompense,
And it never trades songs
For your radiance and shimmer.

  You would make Amor deaf
If I trusted you any longer,
You would bestrew my much-loved lute
With your golden dust;
And in the end even the sweet and clear goblet,
The goblet of chaste love,
Would become turbid 
By dint of your evilness.

  Therefore onward, oh fugitive! Only move onward,
And do not again whisper
Your flattering, seductive words
To the sounds of my songs!
For no matter how much you may tempt me,
I shall never give up my lute;
With your beams of frippery
You may boast to the company of beggars!