I was brought forth by Misery distressed, Though Mother is the term that I would rather; Sorrow begot me, and I called him Father, And Melancholy nursed me at her breast. Fold after fold, the swaddling clothes that pressed My baby limbs were pleated with annoy; And so from head to foot the little boy With nothing good was governed and was dressed. When I was grown into a man they found A wife to comfort me with voice that jars The very heavens above, a jangling sound Like the perpetual strumming of guitars. Thus any man whose wife has died is reckoned A hopeless fool if he should take a second.
La stremità mi richer per figliuolo, ed i’ l’appello ben per madre mia; e ’ngenerato fu’ dal fitto duolo, e la mia bàlia fu malinconia, e le mie fasce si fur d’un lenzuolo che volgarment’ha nome riccadìa; da la cima del capo ’nfin al suolo, cosa non regna ’n me che bona sia. Po’ quand’i’ fu’ cresciuto, mi fu dato per mia ristorazion moglie che garre da anzi dì ’nfin al ciel stellato; e ’l su’ garrir paion mille chitarre: a cu’ la moglie muor, ben è lavato se la ripiglia, più che non è ’l Farre.