The cold sloth
Of winter has had its time;
Now is the joyous season
Of delightful spring.

Plants decorate the ground,
And little flowers the plants;
The leaves are back
And make shade in the forest.

Early in the morning, the maid
Goes out before the heat
To pluck from the new rose
Its perfumed flower.

To have a finer look
Whether she adorns her breast with it
Or makes a gift of it
To her lover, from her own hand;

He, taking it from her hand
As a remembrance of love,
Will never lose it from sight,
Kissing it hundreds of times a day.

Ah, hear in the copse
The shepherd's flute
Which upsets the building-works
Of the nesting nightingale.

See the clear, pure water
Bubbling in the streams;
Within them, see the greenery
Of their branching neighbours.

The sea is calm and gentle,
The sky serene and bright,
The ship sails off to the Indies;
A fair wind makes it fly.

The housekeeping bees
Make here their sweet produce,
Flitting among the flowers
To garner their due.

In their hive they gather in
The best from the best flowers,
So that with it they can make
That sweet liquor, honey.

Everywhere resound the clear voices 
Of all kinds of birds,
In the meadows the larks,
The swans on the waters,

In the houses the swallows,
The nightingales in the woods,
All raise their sweet voices 
In happy new songs.

So, I shall sing of the sadness
And the pleasure of love,
As I feel its flame
Now painful, now sweet.

And if singing pleases me,
Is there not good reason
Since everything amuses itself this way
In this happy season?