I have heard the wild nightingale
rejoicing with love
in its own language.
And it makes me die of envy
for I can neither see nor gaze upon
the one whom I desire,
nor has she wanted to hear me this year.
But because of the sweet singing
of the nightingale and his mate,
my spirits are encouraged a little.
And thus I comfort
my heart by singing,
something I didn’t expect to do this year.

Yet, nothing which I see
brings my heart any happiness,
because I know my own folly.
And it’s right that I feel thus.
I have deserved it,
for I allowed my heart
to enjoy a foolish thought,
for which I now suffer
and have had grief and anguish,
knowing in my mind
what I have lost this year.
For I never experienced great joy
nor anything which I desired.

And although I lament my misfortune,
my heart leans in supplication
towards her who rules in me.
And it’s right that it should be so.
For at our parting she
could say no more to me,
but I saw her cover her face,
and, sighing, she said to me:
‘I commend you to God’.
And when I remember in my mind
her lovely, loving face,
I almost die of weeping,
for I am no longer in her presence.

Like a supplicant, I beg of my lady,
to whom I have pledged my heart,
not to have a fickle heart towards me,
nor to believe what false rumour-mongerers say
of me, nor to think
that I am inclined towards any other woman,
because I sigh in good faith
and I love her without deceit
and without a vile heart.
For in no way do I have the mindset
of those false lovers
who seduce deceitfully,
causing love to have a bad name.

Never have I turned aside from my path
towards her to whom I surrendered my heart,
since I rendered her homage.
And I have no intention
of ever leaving her service.
Suffer who may,
I am hers, and cannot leave her,
never ever,
for I do not want any other,
nor is there in my mind
anything which I want so much.
Therefore I serve her
humbly, with my hands together.

Song!—I make you my messenger.
Go now quickly to the place where joy dwells,
and explain to my lady
that she tortures me so much.
And you can even tell her
that I am dying of desire;
And if she deigns to receive you,
remind her—
and do not delay—
of the sorrow, longing
and such great love
of which I die, desiring,
because I am not able to gaze on her or kiss her.

Lady Maria, so great
is your merit,
that all my words and singing
sound worthy and decorous,
because of the great praise
which I speak of you as I sing.