Louise Labe (1524 - 1566 / France)

O gentle gaze, o eyes where beauty grows,
Like little gardens full of amorous flowers,
Where the bow of Love shoots his sharp arrows
And where my eyes have gazed for many hours.

O savage cruelty, o felon heart
Binding me in so many rigorous chains,
So many are my lovesick tears and pains,
Burning is the ache of my tortured heart.

Thus you, my eyes, so much delight have had,
From looking in his eyes, so much enjoyment;
But you, my heart, the more you see them glad,

The more you languish, the worse your torment.
Then guess if there is any joy for me,
Knowing my heart and eyes thus disagree.