Love is slaying me

Love is slaying me, and I do not want to speak

the pleasant pain it gives me to die,

so much I fear that someone will want to cure

the pain behind my sweet sighs.

It is true that my languishment desires

that I may be cured with time,

but I do not want to need my lady

for my health: my martyrdom is too pleasurable.

Be still, languishment: I feel the day coming

when my mistress, after such a long absence,

seeing the care that gnaws at my thoughts,

for a whole night will hold me

in her arms, prodigally, and so will pay

the interest on my great pain.