Mille fïate, o dolce mia guerrera,
per aver co' begli occhi vostri pace
v'aggio proferto il cor; mâ voi non piace
mirar sí basso colla mente altera.
Et se di lui fors'altra donna spera,
vive in speranza debile et fallace:
mio, perché sdegno ciò ch'a voi dispiace,
esser non può già mai cosí com'era.
Or s'io lo scaccio, et e' non trova in voi
ne l'exilio infelice alcun soccorso,
né sa star sol, né gire ov'altri il chiama,
poria smarrire il suo natural corso:
che grave colpa fia d'ambeduo noi,
et tanto piú de voi, quanto piú v'ama.
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I have offered you my heart a thousand times
O my sweet warrior, only to make peace
with your lovely eyes: but it does not please you
with your noble mind, to stoop so low.
And if some other lady has hope of it,
she lives in powerless, deceiving hope:
and it can never be what it was to me,
since I too disdain what does not please you.
Now if I banish it, and it does not find in you
any aid in its unhappy exile, nor knows
how to be alone, nor to go where others call to it,
it might stray from its natural course:
which would be a grave crime for both of us,
and more for you, since it loves you more.
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