S'io avesse pensato che sí care
fossin le voci de' sospir' miei in rima,
fatte l'avrei, dal sospirar mio prima,
in numero piú spesse, in stil piú rare.
Morta colei che mi facea parlare,
et che si stava de' pensier' miei in cima,
non posso, et non ò piú sí dolce lima,
rime aspre et fosche far soavi et chiare.
Et certo ogni mio studio in quel tempo era
pur di sfogare il doloroso core
in qualche modo, non d'acquistar fama.
Pianger cercai, non già del pianto honore:
or vorrei ben piacer; ma quella altera
tacito stanco dopo sé mi chiama.
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If I had thought the voice of my sighs
in verse would have been held so dear,
I'd have made them, from my first breath,
greater in number, purer in style.
She who made me write them is dead,
she who was the summit of my thoughts,
and I'm unable, and no longer have the skill,
to make harsh gloomy verses sweet and clear.
And in truth my efforts at that time
were to ease the saddened heart
in that manner, not to acquire fame.
I sought to weep, not gain honour from tears:
now would like to please: but that noble one
calls me, silent and weary, after her.
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