Go, fortunate rose

Go, fortunate rose,

to rest at Nice's breast

and all will be forced

to envy your fate.

Oh, if I could change myself

into you, but for a moment,

my heart would long

for no greater happiness.

But you bow your head with spite,

fair faded rose,

your brow loses all colour

from disdain and pain.

Lovely rose, it is destined,

that we meet the same fate:

we shall both meet death there,

you from envy and I of love.