To the proud woman

Nevertheless, I can do nothing else:

I must be well-disposed to her,

even if her eyes' proud light

begrudges me their shine.

I will, I should, I should, I must love you;

therefore, we both will be unhappy,

for my wish is in vain,

and you do not wish to hear it.

How many days, how many nights,

how much lovely time

have I spent in lamentation,

and you laugh at my grief!

You know, you hear, you hear and see my pain,

and take none of it to heart,

so that I am tempted to doubt

whether you even have a heart.

Are you then harder than stone or steel

that one can compel?

Field, meadow, forests, mountain and valley

all watch my sorrow.

The birds sigh when I lament.

The empty bushes echo when I speak.

You only, you proud woman you,

keep closed your ears and eyes.

Ah, think, think what you are doing.

I cannot do anything differently.

I have an odd pleasure in my sorrow:

You hate my pain.

If then I can obtain no favor,

then let me receive good will,

and then let me

immediately die here.