IV.
Ballata.
One speaks of his Feigned and Real Love.
For no love borne by me,
Neither because I care
To find that thou art fair,—
To give another pain I gaze on thee.
And now, lest such as thought that thou couldst move
My heart, should read this verse,
I will say here, another has my love.
An angel of the spheres
She seems, and I am hers;
Who has more gentleness
And owns a fairer face
Than any woman else,—at least, to me.
Sweeter than any, more in all at ease,
Lighter and lovelier.
Not to disparage thee; for whoso sees
May like thee more than her.
This vest will one prefer
And one another vest.
To me she seems the best,
And I am hers, and let what will be, be.
For no love borne by me,
Neither because I care
To find that thou art fair,—
To give another pain, I gaze on thee.
