Your love, Indeg's sheen,
fetterer of joy, is grievous
within me, [like] a vigorous handsome lad,
4 tormenting me for nine years.
There was never a lad whose long companionship
was more unbeneficial to his foster-father.
A spoilt lad, base murderer,
8 a worthless foster-son was he to him.
That is the reward I get,
noble Morfudd, it is grief.
Whichever church you go to,
12 on Sunday or on holy day, may you be my love,
I clasp my fists where you have gone,
my pale girl,
and there, jewel [of your] kindred,
16 (playful, shameful tale)
I cast my lustful eyes
over your body, my gentle sweetheart.
There are ten or twelve
20 needles every day
from one eyelid to the other,
as a hindrance, love's custody,
so that one lid does not press on the other,
24 wise shrewd girl of golden form.
Whilst my eyes are intolerably open,
prosecution by a throng,
rain comes (you are a bright-faced girl)
28 from the fluid of the wounded breast.
From the flood of the twin streams spreading
from there, my desire,
(consider this, slender girl,
32 thoughts of love's humours)
rain will come after woeful tribulation
over the beard, shapely Morfudd.
Though I be in the fair choir for a while
36 on Sunday for psalms sake, [I am] pale and thin,
not all the people of the parish reject me,
sad and guiless, even though I am not handsome.
The law of love demands,
40 girl, take me for your own.