Braiz, chans, quils, critz Aug dels auzels pels plaissaditz. – Oc! mas no los enten ni deinh; C'un'ira·m cenh Lo cor, on dols m'a pres razitz, Per qe·n sofer.	I hear the tweets, songs, twitterings and cries of the birds in the hedge – Yes! but I neither listen nor care; for a sadness grips my heart, where grief has taken root, making me suffer.
Si·m fos grazitz Mos chantars, ni ben acuillitz Per cella que m'a en desdeing, D'aitan mi feing Q'en mains bons luocs for'enbrugitz Mais que non er.	If my singing were appreciated and welcome by her who holds me in disdain, I would so strive that I'd be acclaimed in many more good places than I actually will.
Tristz e marritz Es mos chantars aissi fenitz Per totz temps mais tro q'ela·m deing Pel sieu manteing; Era mos bos, er es delitz! Mas no·l sofer!	Sad and woebegone, my singing is thus ended forever until she cares for me with her support; it was my treasure, now it is a flaw, since she can't stand it.
Jois m'es fugitz! Un pauc mas tost mi fon faillitz! S'anc mi volc, er m'a en desdeing. Com no·m esteing Can precs ni merces ni destritz Re no i conquer?	Joy has fled from me; a little earlier, [my singing] failed me. Even if she loved me, now she holds me in disdain. Why don't I snuff myself out when pleads nor mercy nor patience can attain anything?
Mos cors me ditz "Per qe soi per liei envilitz?" – "Car sap que nuill'autra non deing, Per so·m n'estreing". Morrai, car mos cors enfollitz Mas ges non quer.	My heart tells me: "Why am I debased so much through her?" "Because she knows that you don't care for any other woman: because of that she depreciates me". I shall die, for my madded heart seeks nothing else.
Cum sui trahitz! Bona dompn'ab talan voutitz, Ab cor dur, a! nuill'als non deing, Mesclat ab geing. Volretz que torn flacs-endurzitz, O que demer!	How betrayed I am! Good lady of fickle desire [and] of stony heart, Oh! I do not, stirred with guile, care for anyone else. You will have that I turn weary and bony or that I fall!
Trop sui arditz! Dompna, mos sens eissabozitz M'a faitz dir fols motz q'ieu non deing: Contra mi reing. Tant sui fors de mon sen issitz Non sent qi·m fer.	I am too daring! Lady, my befuddled sense made me utter foolish words I don't care for: I am acting against myself. I am so much out of my wit that I don't feel it if one wounds me.
Mout es petitz, Dompna,·l tortz q'ieu vos ai servitz, Per que vos m'avetz en desdeing. Fatz n'esdeveing! Pendutz fos aut per la cervitz Qui a moiller!	Lady, the wrong I have done you, and for which you hold me in disdain, is but a trifling thing. It is driving me insane! May he who has a wife be hanged high by the neck.
Humils, ses geing, Dompna,·l vostre sers fals-faillitz Merce vos quer.	Humble, without deceit, lady, your false-failed serf begs you for mercy.
Mas pretz, non Sobrans', es tequitz: Don en vos er.	Worth, not Pride, has flourished, wherefore it'll be in you.