Mia benigna fortuna e’l viver lieto,
i chiari giorni e le tranquille notti
e i soavi sospiri, e’l dolce stile
che solea resonare in versi e’n rime,
volti subitamente in doglia e’n pianto
odiar vita mi fanno e bramar morte.

Crudele, acerba, inesorabil Morte,
cagion mi dai di mai non esser lieto
ma di menar tutta mia vita in pianto
e i giorni oscuri e le dogliose notti;
i miei gravi sospir non vanno in rime,
e’l mio duro martir vince ogni stile.

Petrarch

My kind fortune and life so happy,
bright days and tranquil nights,
and gentle sighs and a sweet style
that used to resound in verses and rhymes,
suddenly turned to grief and weeping,
and make me hate life and long for death.

Cruel, bitter, inexorable Death,
you give me cause never to be happy
but to spend my whole life weeping,
with dark days and sorrowing nights;
my heavy sighs will not go into rhymes,
and my harsh torment surpasses every style.

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