Because no hope is left me, Ballatetta,
Of return to Tuscany,
Light-foot go thou some fleet way
Unto my Lady straightway,
And out of her courtesy
Great honour will she do thee.

Tidings thou bearest with thee sorrow-fain
Full of all grieving, overcast with fear.
On guard! Lest any one see thee or hear,
Any who holds high nature in disdain,
For sure if so, to my increase of pain,
Thou wert made prisoner
And held afar from her,
Hereby new harms were given
Me and, after death even,
Dolour and griefs renewed.

Thou knowest, Ballatetta, that Death layeth
His hand upon me whom hath Life forsaken;
Thou knowest well how great a tumult swayeth
My heart at sound of her whom each sense crieth
Till all my mournful body is so shaken
That I cannot endure here,
Would’st thou make service sure here?
Lead forth my soul with thee
(I pray thee earnestly)
When it parts from my heart here.
Ah, Ballatetta, to thy friendliness,
I do give o’er this trembling soul’s poor case.
Bring thou it there where her dear pity is,
And when thou hast found that Lady of all grace
Speak through thy sighs, my Ballad, with thy face
Low bowed, thy words in sum:
‘Behold, thy servant is come
–This soul who would dwell with thee–
Asundered suddenly
From Him, Love’s servitor.’

O smothered voice and weak that tak’st the road
Out from the weeping heart and dolorous,
Go, crying out my shatter’d mind’s alarm,
Forth with my soul and this song piteous
Until thou find a lady of such charm,
So sweetly intelligent
That e’en thy sorrow is spent.
Take thy fast place before her.
And thou, Soul mine, adore her
Alway, with all thy might.