Happy are the pains
Of him whose pleasure 
Has on true fidelity 
Settled his desire.

One can so much seek by service,
And yet fail by endurance to obtain 
That which one pursues
By too much desiring,
From which in bad graces 
One is forced to retreat.

For such a service 
Seeks only the point 
That by common vice
Pricks and stings honor.

And this toil turns to smoke 
Each time that reason intervenes,
Which always masters
Every noble, exalted heart,
And bit by bit gnaws away 
At pleasure, till it fails.

But what I hope for
Is his desire 
For me to be all his
As he will be mine.

For when Love is joined to Virtue,
The heart conceives a boundless desire 
That always seeks
Every exalted, holy good
That with sweet martyrdom 
Surrounds and girds it.

For it therein engenders
An ardor to see,
And always to learn
Some lofty knowledge.

Knowledge is the minister of Virtue,
By whom vicious Love is defeated,
And who corrects it,
When above the heart 
It elevates itself too much
To be victorious.

This is why that hope
Toils within me,
That gives me the desire 
Both to see and to know.

My hope being thus assured,
I do not fear it will exceed its bounds:
But I surely wish it to grow 
With ever greater force
To the end that my heart 
May prove firm and strong.

And that I may always see,
Toiling in this way,
The undeviating path
Of immortal concern.

Then if it wishes to mount to such a height
That it may surmount Love and Death,
Its transitory life
Will have to be relieved 
Of chaste yearnings
So as to embolden it.

Thus I am attended
By so exalted a desire
That for him I need not stint
Myself, nor my pleasure.