Ahi bella libertà, come tu m'ài,
partendoti da me, mostrato quale
era 'l mio stato, quando il primo strale
fece la piagha ond'io non guerrò mai!
Gli occhi invaghiro allor sí de' lor guai,
che 'l fren de la ragione ivi non vale,
perch'ànno a schifo ogni opera mortale:
lasso, cosí da prima gli avezzai!
Né mi lece ascoltar chi non ragiona
de la mia morte; et solo del suo nome
vo empiendo l'aere, che sí dolce sona.
Amor in altra parte non mi sprona,
né i pie' sanno altra via, né le man' come
lodar si possa in carte altra persona.
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Ah precious freedom, how you've shown me
in parting from me, the state I was in
before that first arrow made the wound
the one from which I never can be healed!
My eyes were so enamoured of their sorrow,
that reason's rein was of no worth,
since I held all things mortal in disdain:
alas, I so accustomed them, from the start!
I don't allow myself to listen except to those
who speak of her, my death: and only go filling
the air with her name, that sounds so sweet.
Love spurs me on to no other place,
my feet know no other road, nor can the hand
praise anyone but her in my writing.
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