Deep in thoughts of love, I came
On two young maids,
One sang: ‘It rains
On us, the joy of love.’

Their faces were so calm and sweet,
With modesty and courtesy,
I said to them: ‘You hold the key
Of all virtue and nobility.
Ah, young maids, do not scorn me
Because of the wound that I carry,
My heart has been dead inside me
Since I left Toulouse.’

They turned their gaze towards me so
They might see how I was wounded
And how a spirit born of sorrow
From my wound’s deep centre issued.
When they saw me so destroyed,
One of them smiled and said:
‘See how this man is conquered
By the power of love.’

The other filled with mercy, pity,
Made for joy, in Love’s likeness,
Said: ‘Your heart’s wound I see
Came from eyes of such excess,
Such power, they left within, a brightness
I cannot endure:
Tell me if you recall
Those eyes in you.’

To this harsh and fearful question
That the young maid asked of me,
I said: ‘In Toulouse I remember
There appeared an elegant lady,
Whom Love called la Mandetta: she
Struck me so fiercely, suddenly
To death, with her eyes, inwardly,
Through and through.’

She who had laughed at me before
Now replied most courteously:
‘She, who set herself with Love’s power
In your heart, gazed so fixedly
Into and through your eyes, that she
Made Love, himself, appear there.
If it’s deeply that you suffer
Turn to Love.’

Go to Toulouse, my little ballad,
Enter the Gilded Church there quietly,
Ask of some lovely lady, clearly,
To take you, out of courtesy,
To her of whom I told you fully:
And if you are received,
Say to her softly: ‘See,
For mercy I come to you.’