The Pain of Love
A fickle heart has sickened,
love has betrayed my breast.
I was once (I know a hundred wounds)
4 in the age of youth and vigour,
without weakness, without pain,
one bound to anguish's love,
a seducer [by] poetry, without feebleness,
8 good in a tryst, and brave and splendid,
a composer of light-hearted poetry,
very joyful, abounding in language,
full of health, without blemish,
12 merry, lively and handsome.
But now (anger comes quickly)
I am languishing, ending's sadness.
Finished is the boldness that provoked me,
16 finished is the body (affliction is usual),
finished completely is the limit of the voice
and the feats-grievously have I fallen.
The poetic inspiration about a fair girl has perished,
20 finished is the talk of the arouser of love.
There rises in me (poetry's memory)
no joyful thought or passion,
nor any pleasant talk of them,
24 nor ever love, unless a girl asks for it.