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The Song of May and Virtue

Gladly, in this month of May,
earth transforms, and renews,
and many a lover does so too,
made to forge their love anew,
by the fickleness of their hearts,
and be more content elsewhere.
That way of loving is not for me,
my love will endure eternally.
 
There is no lovely lady, here,
whose beauty will not fade,
through time, illness, anxiety
imperfection seeks them out

Of His Great Love

In Paris, that fine city,
walking one day, melancholy,
I forged a new friendship
with the loveliest lady
who hails from Italy.
 
With honesty she’s overflowing
and I think, beyond all knowing,
there’s none more beautiful
　　　in Paris.
 
I’ll not say her name to you,
though she’s my love and true,
such being our agreement,
for a kiss, I had of her,
without thinking any ill,
　　　in Paris.
 

Regarding Himself

I’m no longer what I once was,
might think none of it had existed.
My fine spring, my summer,
have vanished out the window.
Love, you’ve been my master,
I’ve served you above all others.
Ah, could I only begin again,
see how I’d serve you better!