I can’t prevent myself from singing,
And yet I’m full of grief and sadness,
Though joy is always a lovely thing,
And no one takes pleasure in distress.
I don’t sing as one loved will sing
But as one troubled, downcast, weeping,
Since I’ve no more hope of happiness,
Ever deceived by what words are weaving.
I will tell you one thing without lying:
Love greatly depends on fate and chance,
If I could sever from her, cease loving,
It would be better than ruling France.
Now I’ve spoken like a mad thing,
Her beauties I’d rather die recalling
Her great wisdom and sweet acquaintance,
Than see the whole wide world bowing.
I’ll never be happy, I’m sure that’s true,
Since Love hates, and my lady forgets me,
Yet there’s sense for one with love in view
In not fearing death, or pain, or folly.
As I give myself, with Love so willing,
To my lady, then it’s of his desiring,
That I shall die or regain my lady,
Or my life will be not worth living.
The Phoenix seeks the wood of the vine
And plunging there dies an incendiary.
So I sought death and this torment of mine