L’Amor, che m’è guerrero ed enemico, m’ha fatto com’al drago san Michele, e mi fa canne somigliar candele: guarda s’i’ son ben di veder mendico. Garzon di tempo e di savere antico, fui già chiamato fonte di cautele; ma veramente come Cristo ’n ciel è, i’ son del tutto folle, e nol disdico. Però chi mi riprende di fallare, nol mir’a dritto specchi’, al mi’ parere: ché contra forza senno suol perire. E non per tanto, ché del migliorare non si sa punt’, anz’i’ potre’ morire – dica chi vuol, ch’i’ ’l mett’a non calere.
Now Love makes war on me, my deadliest foe; Like Satan by Saint Michael, I’m defeated; Now I take canes for candles; thus I’m treated; I can’t see straight. Don’t say it isn’t so. A likely learnèd lad not long ago, Men counted me a prudent paragon, But now, as sure as heaven’s where Christ has gone, I’ve gone stark mad, as far too well I know. And yet all those who blame me as unwise Should find a clearer glass where they would see How force alone suppresses wisdom there. But where the cure for this distemper lies No man can tell; unless it’s Death maybe: Say what you like, for I no longer care.
translated by: C.H. Scott and Anthony Mortimer