I am already wearied with thinking
of how my thoughts are never weary of you,
and how I’ve not abandoned life itself yet,
to flee so heavy a weight of sighs:

and how my tongue is never lacking sound
to speak of your face and your hair,
and your lovely eyes I always talk of,
calling on your name day and night:

and how my feet are never tired and weary
of following your footsteps everywhere,
spending so many paces uselessly:

and how from it comes all the ink and paper
where I go writing of you: if that is wrong,
it is Love’s fault, not a defect of my art.