Quel foco ch'i' pensai che fosse spento
dal freddo tempo et da l'età men fresca,
fiamma et martir ne l'anima rinfresca.
Non fur mai tutte spente, a quel ch'i' veggio,
ma ricoperte alquanto le faville,
et temo no 'l secondo error sia peggio.
Per lagrime ch'i' spargo a mille a mille
conven che 'l duol per gli occhi si distille
dal cor, ch'à seco le faville et l'ésca:
non pur qual fu, ma pare a me che cresca.
Qual foco non avrian già spento et morto
l'onde che gli occhi tristi versan sempre?
Amor, avegna mi sia tardi accorto,
vòl che tra duo contrari mi distempre;
et tende lacci in sí diverse tempre,
che quand'ò piú speranza che 'l cor n'esca,
allor piú nel bel viso mi rinvesca.
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That fire that I thought had been quenched
by chill time and declining years,
rekindles flame and suffering in the soul.
They were not wholly spent, as I can see,
those last embers, but covered over,
and I fear this second error will be worse.
With all the thousands of tears I weep
sorrow flowing from my heart distils
from my eyes: sparks and tinder are with me:
it is not as it was, but seems to flare higher.
What fire would not by now be spent and dead
on which these sad eyes were always turned?
Love, though I have been so slow to see it,
stretches me between two contraries:
and spreads his nets in such diverse ways,
that when I've most hope my heart will escape,
I can no longer retreat from her lovely face.
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