Louise Labe (1524 - 1566 / France)

O languid longing, o languorous sighs.
Rise up once more whenever you are here,
Because I can't stop these rivers of tears,
And these fountains flowing from my eyes.

O cruelties, o inhuman hardness,
Piteable regards of celestian lights.
O benumbed heart, o passionate heights,
Do you con me with false lovelinnes ?

Amor is disguised with a friendly face,
But I won't welcome him, nor embrace
His cunning features, mysterious and dark.

As he draws and aims on me his arrow,
I'm not afraid because it is too narrow,
Even for him, to hurt me and hit a free mark.