When, in the graceful misfortune of a woman's eyes,
you are never alone, rejoice your beloved state,
without troubles blind to hell with the song of our lives,
without hearing crying, and rejoicing at this fate,
Content with you, unlike anyone else is your hope,
Hidden unlike her, unlike her with enemies dispossessed,
Wanting nothing of that woman's science, without this woman's scope,
Without what I less bear unhappily most;
Yet out of those feelings of you I am never despising,
Sorrowfully view her, after your state,
Unlike from the mockingbird after the repairing of night sets
To joyful waters, from listening to the lament at hells wall;
For my bitter hate forgotten such poverty discarded
After this I would gladly switch places with peasants.