Ballate
Would’st thou make service sure here?
Lead forth my soul with thee
(I pray thee earnestly)
When it parts from my heart here.
Ah, Ballatetta, to thy friendliness
I do give o’er this trembling soul’s poor case.
Bring thou it there where her dear pity is,
And when thou hast found that Lady of all grace
Speak through thy sighs, my Ballad, with thy face
Low bowed, thy words in sum:
“Behold, thy servant is come,
This soul who would dwell with thee,
Asundered suddenly
From Him, Love’s servitor.”
O smothered voice and weak that tak’st the road
Out from the weeping heart and dolorous,
Go crying out my most sad mind’s alarm
Forth with my soul and this song piteous
Until thou find a lady of such charm,
So sweetly intelligent
That e’en thy sorrow is rent.
Take thy fast place before her.
And thou, Soul mine, adore her
Alway, with all thy might.
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