You who transfix my heart with your eyes and awaken the mind that sleeps, behold my tormented life, that Love destroys by sighing.

With such great power He comes so piercingly that my feeble spirits run away: only the image of his sovereignty remains, along with what little voice still speaks of misery.

This power of love that has unmade me moves suddenly from your gentil eyes: a dart pierces my side.

The blow follows so quickly after the arrow is drawn, that my trembling spirit is shattered in viewing the dead heart in my left side.

I come by day to you so many times and find your thinking so vile: it saddens me that your mind is so far from gentil and your virtues are captive in so many ways.

You used to scorn the herd of people; you always used to shun the foul crowd; you spoke with me so harmoniously, that all your poems were treasured.

Now I don't dare, because of your vile life, let it be known that your poetry pleases me, nor to let myself appear to you so that you could see me.

If you'll read this sonnet often enough, the foul spirit that pursues you will be cast from your corrupted soul.