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This noble gentle bond constrains, presses
in on me since the man who made it died, but also drives out of my heart the hurt that preys on lovers' minds, compelling them to madness. Love no longer paints lying images in my mind. I'm not attacked by fear: no arrows of gold or lead goad or restrain, hold me back and drive me on. In this motionless stillness steadfast faith represents him to me beyond the stars, chance, and fate: unshakeable, constant, true. No longer on one day less scornful, on another more proud, but always the same blessed kindness: this now is love, good, real. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: V XLVI:46. From B A1:31:18. See also R LXIX:189. Translation: Jerrold, 82. Key |
