The moon is accustomed
To being reborn every month;
But when our light
Is once dead,
For long without waking
We’ll have to sleep.

While we live, though,
Give me a kiss,
Give me a thousand more;
Love has no rules,
Infinity suits
His great godhood.

Ah, mistress, you have
Injured with your teeth,
The tongue which sings
Of your beloved name;
So what? That is the price
Of the task it undertook,

[The tongue] which extolled
Your praises on the lute,
And sang to unknown peoples
Your merits
Making the air
Resound with your name.

It sang of the glory
Of your ivory breasts,
The jewels of the Orient,
And of your dainty eyes;
To repay [my tongue] for this,
Must you hurt it?

Alas, of little things
I complain harshly;
The wound hidden in my soul
Burns me very differently
From when your eyes left me it
On the day when they wounded me.