Lo, Love, to thee with clasped hands I turn,
And pray thee seek him where he tarrieth,
And tell him how I oft for him do yearn,
So sweetly he my heart enamoureth;
And of the fire, wherewith I throughly burn,
I think to die, but may the hour uneath
Say, when my grievous pain shall with my breath
Surcease; till when, neither may fear nor shame
The least abate the flame.
Ah! to his ears my woeful story bring.
Since of him I was first enamoured,
Never hast thou, O Love, my fearful heart
With any such fond hope encouraged,
As e'er its message to him to impart,
To him, my lord, that me so sore bested
Holds: dying thus, 'twere grievous to depart:
Perchance, were he to know my cruel smart,
'Twould not displease him; might I but make bold
My soul to him to unfold,
And shew him all my woeful languishing.
Love, since 'twas not thy will me to accord
Such boldness as that e'er unto my King
I may discover my sad heart's full hoard,
Or any word or sign thereof him bring:
This all my prayer to thee, O sweet my Lord:
Hie thee to him, and so him whispering
Mind of the day I saw him tourneying
With all his paladins environed,
And grew enamoured
Ev'n to my very heart's disrupturing.
Which words Minuccio forthwith set to music after a soft and plaintive
fashion befitting their sense; and on the third day thereafter hied him
to court, while King Pedro was yet at breakfast.
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