And this is why I feel so destroyed,
Thrown down so low from on so high,
And yet you could not manage
Turning on me?

Alas! I’d prefer dying
To entertaining such painful imagination
Which often used
To give me joy,

Which doubled the love I felt,
Made my desire increase,
And day after day decreased
My pains;

But now it’s just the opposite,
For now it makes them always increase,
With heavy sighs and weeping,
Because of my love

Which I feel possesses such virtue,
Good sense, courtliness and honour;
Now I know well I’ve lost it
Beyond recovery,

And that it shall be my death
When I shall quit Love
And can no longer gaze upon
Her fair welcome,

And this plunges me into such great misery
That I want or desire nothing
But death. If my wish
Will be granted,

And if it were up to me
About my dying or mercy
I would completely forget about
My life,

For there is no trace of joy in me;
And as they say, which I doubt not at all:
Whoever loves well forgets slowly;
I very much agree;

And as for him to whom love
Has been granted, let him be wise
And serve in good faith,
Without folly,

For there is, I confirm the truth of it,
No leave-taking so miserable
As that of a lover from his beloved.

motetus:
Pure Love, who came to pierce
My heart, did me a great injustice
In not wishing to cure my pains
At the proper time and season;
Instead in Her dungeon She forces me
To suffer its terribly grievous pains,
For from this point on She can offer
Me no comfort, only do me harm,
Since Fortune has snatched away
My cure, to grieve me still more deeply.
Alas! now I can go mad with grief,
Abandon myself to weeping and complaint,
As I expect, in return for loving well,
Death by way of reward.

tenor:
Why did I not die?

English: R Barton Palmer © 2018