Questi ch’indizio fan del mio tormento,
sospir non sono, né i sospir son tali.
Quelli han triegua talora; io mai non sento
che ’l petto mio men la sua pena esali.
Amor che m’arde il cor, fa questo vento,
mentre dibatte intorno al fuoco l’ali.
Amor, con che miracolo lo fai,
che ’n fuoco il tenghi, e nol consumi mai?
English translation
No; these, which are the index of my woes,
These are not sighs, nor sighs are such; they fail
At times, and have their season of repose:
I feel, my breast can never less exhale
Its sorrow: Love, who with his pinions blows
The fire about my heart, creates this gale.
Love, by what miracle does thou contrive,
It wastes not in the fire thou keep'st alive? Translation by William Stewart Rose
Italian text
English translation