Dolcissimo ben mio,
lo pur mi parto a Dio.
Ma nel partir almeno
La ch'io mi porti la tua imago in seno.
My sweetest,
I also am departing toward God.
But in my departure at least allow
That I bring thy image in my heart.
Il bianco e dolce cigno cantando more,
Ed io piangendo, gillng' al fin del viver' mio.
Stran' e diversa sorte,
Ch'ei more sconsolato,
Ed io moro beata morte,
Che nel morire
M'empie di gioia tutto e di desire,
Se nel morir' altro dolor non sento,
Di mille mort' il di sarei contento.
The white and 1ovely swan sings only at his death;
Here I stand weeping because I am nearing the end.
O fate so strange and different,
that I should die in sorrow.
Hoping only for life tomorrow,
I see the time now when death
May come and save me from my torment.
Just like the swan may I pass on with singing,
And may my song be one of sweet contentment.
I vostr' acuti dardi mi fan; ahimè!
madonna si languire
ch'io son giunt' al morire
Non più veloci son ma ben sì tardi
i passi ch' acquetavan' il mio core
ond' io, lasso! son fore
da desiati vostri dolci sgllardi
e pur cJ1nvien ch' io sguardi
il duol; all dio! ch' io ento!
che mat-sara contento.
Your sharp arrows make me-ah, me-
My lady languish so
that I have arrived at death,
No longer fast but really slow
are the steps that pacified my heart;
therefore I, miserable,
am out of your sweet looks,
And I must face the pain.
O God! Since I feel
that I will never be happy.
Il est bel et bon, commére, mon mari.
II etait deux femmes toutes d'un pays,
Disant l'une a l'autre, «avez bon mari?»
II est bel et bon. . . .
II ne me courouce,
ne me bat aussi.
Ilfait Ie menage,
Il donn' aux poulailles,
Et je prends mes plaisirs.
Commere, c'est pour rire,
Quand les poulailles crient
Petite coquette qu'esse ci?
II est bel et bon. . . .
My husband is so handsome and good, dearie.
There were two women in a neighborhood;
One said to the other,
"Have you a good husband?"
He's never angry with me,
Neither does he beat me,
He does the housework,
fle feeds the chickens,
And I have my fun.
My dear, it's funny,
When the chickens cry,
"Little coquette, what are you up to?"
Au joly bois, en l'ombre d'ung soucy,
My fault aller pour passer ma tristesse;
Remply de dueil, d'ung souvenir transy,
Menger my falllt maintes poires d'angoisse.
En ung jardin remply de noires flours,
De mes deux yeux feray larmes et plours.
Fy de lyesse
Et hardiesse!
Regret m 'oppresse,
Puis que j'ay perdu mes amours.
Las! trop j'endure!
Le temps my dure,
Je vous asseure:
Soulas vous n'avez plus de cours!
To the fair woods in the shadow of a care,
There I go to pass away my sadness.
Filled with mourning, overcome by a memory,
To eat there many a pear of anguish.
In a garden filled with dark flowers
My two eyes will shed tears of woe.
End of gaiety
And boldness
Sadness oppresses me;
Since I have lost my loves.
Alas! Too much I endure!
Time drags on
I assure you.
Alas! You have no other course!
La, la, la,
Je ne l'o-, je ne l'o-,
Je ne l'ose dire,
La, la, la,
Je le vous dirai!
Il est un homme en notre ville
Qui de sa femme est jaloux.
Il n'est pas jaloux sans cause,
Mais il n'est pas beau du tout!
La, la, la.
Il n'est pas jaloux sans cause,
Mais il n'est pas beau du tout.
Il l'apprête et s'il la mene
au marché, s'en va à tout,
et la, la, la.
I don't dare, I don't dare,
I don't dare to say it.
La, la, la,
I'll tell it to you!
There is a man in our town
Who is jealous of his wife.
He is not jealous without cause,
Because he is not much to look at!
He is not jealous without cause,
Because he is not much to look at.
He prepares himself and takes her to market
. . .