Disconsolate, full of pain and anger,
I have to sing for I cannot direct my attention elsewhere;
I see everyone, except me, play and laugh,
nor do I find anyone who can protect me from distress.
She whom my heart most desires is killing me,
so I am angered as it does her no good.
Each one says that he loves in this way;
one cannot discern a lover by that.

She does not feel my pain nor my suffering,
therefore I must wait for her mercy;
I pray God that he send to hell all the false lovers
through whom my joy is spoiled.
‘I love’, says each one; there is certainly nothing to stop them saying so:
but I see few of them who are intent on Love.
Each one says that he loves in this way;
one cannot discern a lover by that.

Love is accustomed to distress me,
and thus he gives me good reason to complain of him;
but the pain of suffering is light
if it pleases her who teaches me to love.
My heart tells me that I should often beseech her,
but it is worse as she torments me more.
Each one says that he loves in this way;
one cannot discern a lover by that.

I have never made a false entreaty to her,
for I do not know how, and may she never teach me how;
my love is not at all inconstant,
for there is none other upon whom my heart resides.
If I gain no more, the pain of it is very dear to me,
since it pleases her that Love oppresses me.
Each one says that he loves in this way;
one cannot discern a lover by that.

Gace, who always loves
and has no mercy, has finished his song.