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.
I’ ho sì poco di grazia ’n Becchina, in fé di Di’, ch’anche non tèn a frodo, che in le’ non posso trovar via né modo, né medico mi val né medicina; ch’ella m’è peggio ch’una saracina o che non fu a’ pargoli il re Rodo; ma certo tanto di le’ me ne lodo, ch’esser con meco non vorrìe reina. Ecco ’l bell’erro c’ha da me a lei: ch’i’ non cherre’ a Di’ altro paradiso che di basciar la terr’, u’ pon li piei; ed i’ fossi sicur d’un fiordaliso, ch’ella dicesse: – Con vertà ’l ti diei! – e no ch’i’ fosse dal mondo diviso!