L’on dit q’amors est dolce chose,
mais je n’en conois la dolçor;
tote joie m’en est enclose,
n’ainz ne senti nul bien d’amor.
Lasse! mes mals ne se repose,
si m’en deplaing et faz clamor.
Mar est batuz qui plorer n’ose
n’en plorant dire sa dolor.
Ses duels li part qui s’ose plaindre;
Plus tost en puet son mal estraindre.

De ce me plaing qu’il m’a traïe;
s’en ai trop grant duel acoilli,
quant je qui sui leals amie
ne truis amor en mon ami.
Je fui ainçois de lui baisie,
si lo fis de m’amor saisi;
mais tels baise qui n’aime mie:
baisier ont maint amant traï.

Estre cuidai de lui amee
quant entre ses braz me tenoit;
cum plus iere d’amors grevee,
a son parler me refaisoit;
a sa voiz iere si sanee
cum Piramus quant il moroit:
navrez en son flanc de s’espee
au nom Tisbé les iauz ovroit.

They say that love is a sweet thing,
but I am not acquainted with its sweetness;
all joy is excluded from me,
I have never felt any good from love.
Alas! my grief gives me no respite,
and so I lament and make complaint.
Woe betide her who dares not weep,
nor, weeping, tell of her sadness.
She who dares to lament eases her grief;
she can stifle her pain more easily.

I complain because he has betrayed me;
I have suffered much pain for this,
since I who am a faithful lover
find no love in my friend.
Once he kissed me,
and I granted him my love;
but some kiss without loving;
kisses have betrayed many a lover.

I thought he loved me
when he held me in his arms;
however much he slighted me in love,
talking to him restored me;
I was consoled by his voice
as the dying Pyramus was:
wounded in the side by his own sword,
at the name of Thisbe he opened his eyes.