Trist’ Amarilli mia: dunqu’è pur vero
Che di Titiro tuo sì stranamente
Vada la gregg’ errand’ ed ei dolente
Lasc’il bel Tebro e Vaticano altero.
Oimè ch’io veggio dentro nel pensiero
Le frond’a terra spars’onde sovente
S’udian Pastori all’ombra dolcemente
Di te cantar il che mai più non spero
Ben saria meglio haver da te la fame
Cacciat’in mezz’i campi scalz’e scinta
Povera sol con le castagn’amate
Ch’i pomi ond’ Athalant’anchor fu vinta
Ti spoglian duramente libertade
E’l tuo soccorso non è pur chi chiami.
English translation
Poor Amaryllis, it is thus true indeed
that the flock of your Tityrus
wanders away so strangely, and that he sadly
leaves the beautiful Tiber and mighty Vatican.
Alas, in my thoughts I see
The leaves strewn on the ground where often
One could hear shepherds in the shade
Singing sweetly about you, which I can no longer
hope for It would be better to have you hunger
Chased into the middle of fields, barefoot and
undressed, Poor save for the beloved chestnuts,
Rather than have the apples that conquered
Atalanta strip you of your freedom;
For those whom you call for help are not your succour.