Piú di me lieta non si vede a terra
nave da l'onde combattuta et vinta,
quando la gente di pietà depinta
su per la riva a ringratiar s'atterra;
né lieto piú del carcer si diserra
chi 'ntorno al collo ebbe la corda avinta,
di me, veggendo quella spada scinta
che fece al segnor mio sí lunga guerra.
Et tutti voi ch'Amor laudate in rima,
al buon testor de gli amorosi detti
rendete honor, ch'era smarrito in prima:
ché piú gloria è nel regno degli electi
d'un spirito converso, et più s'estima,
che di novantanove altri perfecti.
|
No ship, beaten and conquered by the waves,
ever made land more happily than me,
when people who were crying for mercy
kneel down on the shore to give thanks:
he who has the rope already round his neck
is no happier to be freed from his bonds,
than me, seeing all those swords shattered
that made so long a war against my lord.
And all who praise Love in your rhymes,
give honour now to the true writer
of loving songs who once went astray:
for there's more joy, in the realms of the chosen,
in a penitent spirit, and he is more esteemed
than the ninety-nine others who were perfect.
Note:
See Luke XV.7
|
