Now I must sing of what I would not do,
Complain of him I confess to loving true;
I love him more than any the world can view:
Yet my grace and courtesy own no value,
Nor my beauty, my worthiness, my mind;
I’m deceived, betrayed, as would be my due,
If the slightest charm in me he failed to find.
I solace myself with this, I was false never
My friend, to you, neither in acts nor manner;
I love you more than Seguis loved Valensa;
To conquer you in love gives me more pleasure,
Dear friend, for, of all, you are the worthiest;
Yet proud to me in deeds and what you utter,
Though you seem humble towards all the rest.
I marvel at the pride your heart dares display
To me, friend, the cause why I weep all day,
And it’s wrong that another draws you away,
Whatever she does, whatever she might say,
And however it may recall the true beginning
Of our love: the good God wishes in no way
That any fault of mine should cause its ending.
From the great gallantry lodged in your heart,
And the rich worth you own, my torments start;
For I know no lady near to you or afar,
Desiring love, who towards you would not draw:
Yet you, dear friend, are of such fine judgement
You ought to know who the sincerest are;
And remember, remember our agreement.
My worth should help me and my nobility,
My beauty, and more my own heart’s loyalty;
That’s why I send now, wherever you may be,
This song to act as a messenger from me;
I wish to know, my sweet and gentle friend,
Why to me so harsh and full of cruelty;
I’d know if it’s pride, or ill-will in the end.
And I’d have him say, this messenger I send,
That excess of pride works harm on many men.
Beatritz de Dia