With my Becchina, I have such small grace That by God’s faith—and He does not deceive— In her heart I can never find a place. My woe nor drugs nor doctor can relieve. She is as cruel to me as a Saracen Or as King Herod, who the innocents slew, Yet, spite this, at her lovely feet I strew My praises and adore her as a queen. To kiss the sainted ground whereon she stands Is now the only heaven I desire. Ah, would she but exclaim: “This is for you!” And put an iris flower into my hands I’d live, who now to bitter death aspire.
With my Becchina, I have such small grace That by God’s faith—and He does not deceive— In her heart I can never find a place. My woe nor drugs nor doctor can relieve. She is as cruel to me as a Saracen Or as King Herod, who the innocents slew, Yet, spite this, at her lovely feet I strew My praises and adore her as a queen. To kiss the sainted ground whereon she stands Is now the only heaven I desire. Ah, would she but exclaim: “This is for you!” And put an iris flower into my hands I’d live, who now to bitter death aspire.