MS. of Benedictbeuern (Carmina Burana)

So by my singing am I comforted

Even as the swan that singing makes death sweet,

For from my face is gone the wholesome red.

And soft grief in my heart is sunken deep.

For sorrow still increasing,

And travail unreleasing,

And strength from me fast flying,

And I for sorrow dying,

Dying, dying, dying,

Since she I love cares nothing for my sighing.

If she whom I desire would stoop to love me,

I should look down on Jove;

If for one night my lady would lie by me,

And I kiss the mouth I love,

Then come Death unrelenting,

With quiet breath consenting,

I go forth

unrepenting,

Content, content, content,

That such delight were ever to me lent.

Innocent breasts, when I have looked upon them,

Would that my hands were there,

How have I craved, and dreaming thus upon them,

Love wakened from despair.

Beauty on her lips flaming,

Rose red with her shaming,

And I with passion burning

And with my whole heart yearning

For her mouth, her mouth, her mouth,

That on her beauty I might slake my drouth.