Harsh is my fortune, but harsher still is the fate
dealt me by my count: he flees from me,
I follow him; others long for me,
I cannot look at another man's face.
I hate him who loves me,love him who scorns me;
against the humble lover, my heart rebels,
but I am humble to him who kill my hope;
my soul longs for such harmful food.
He constantly gives me cause for anger,
while others seek to give me comfort and peace;
these I ignore, and I cling instead to him.
Thus in your school, Love, we receive
always the opposite of what we deserve:
the humble are despised, the heartless rewarded.
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Comments about this poem (Rime 43 by Gaspara Stampa )
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