The gentle air in green branches,In sweet little flowers,And the song of the birds in the valleys,

can never allieviate

The torment I feel now within my heart.

Whenever a small dagger,

O beautiful hand strikes you & makes you grieve

Your grief strikes me

But if pity for you because

Of the wound thus wounds me,

Then may my heart be healed

Wounded by pity, the pity of love

Oh hopeless life!

Oh pitiless death!

The one invites one to live

And then death holds me

Far from all my well-being

The other seems to comfort me again to die,

Always giving me a heavy and painful life

In such strange dispositions

Do I always live-dying.

RENNAISANCE GARDENS

RENAISSANCE COSTUMES