Perch'io t'abbia guardato di menzogna
a mio podere et honorato assai,
ingrata lingua, già però non m'ài
renduto honor, ma facto ira et vergogna:
ché quando piú 'l tuo aiuto mi bisogna
per dimandar mercede, allor ti stai
sempre piú fredda, et se parole fai,
son imperfecte, et quasi d'uom che sogna.
Lagrime triste, et voi tutte le notti
m'accompagnate, ov'io vorrei star solo,
poi fuggite dinanzi a la mia pace;
et voi sí pronti a darmi angoscia et duolo,
sospiri, allor traete lenti et rotti:
sola la vista mia del cor non tace.
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Though I've protected you from lying,
and have allowed you honourable speech,
ungrateful tongue you've not returned the honour,
but caused me anger and embarrassment:
and the more I'm in need of your help
to ask for mercy, the more frozen you are
and the words you make sound imperfect
like those made by a man in dreams.
And you, sad tears, you stay with me
all night, when I wish to be alone,
then vanish before the face of my peace:
And you, sighs, so ready to bring me anguish
and grief, issue slowly and brokenly then,
so that only my look's not silent about my heart.
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