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!
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.