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If I could slip this chain from off my neck, keep him from preying on my mind, of course I'd dwell on you--and this helpless crying would turn to laughter; I'd make my style sweet, my song gentle, full of high-sounding praise for you, for that nobility which lies not in crowns, scepters, purple cloaks, but in character. But while Heaven's lavished gifts on you, how meanly the stars have starved me-- I was so young when he came between me and your paradise, fixed, limited me to him: this to prevent imperfect praise of you, and to not let anyone now take from me my mourning for my darling. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V XCII:92. See also B E10:208; R CVII:310; MS Cor; 1538/9, 1540-2; 1552/9-60; 1760 Rota. Translations: Roscoe 99; Lawley,55-6; Thérault 308. To Giovanna d'Aragona, justifying her refusal to stop mourning for Pescara. Key |
