Xvi

Deh! dimmi, amor, se l’alma di costei Fosse pietosa com’ha bell’il volto, S’alcun saria sì stolto Ch’a sè non si togliessi e dessi a lei? Et io che più potrei Servirla, amarla, se mi foss’amica; Che, sendomi nemica, L’amo più ch’allor far non doverrei?

Ah tell me, Love, had she a heart as kind As beauty that her feature doth partake, Could there be found the wretch so dull and blind, That would not choose himself from self to take, And give to her? Yet even if she grew My loving friend, what more could I bestow, When in her coldness, while she seems my foe, I love her better than I else could do?