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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.

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.

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!

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?

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.

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!

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.

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!

Humils, ses geing,
Dompna,·l vostre sers fals-faillitz
Merce vos quer.

Mas pretz, non Sobrans', es tequitz:
Don en vos er.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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!

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.

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.

Humble, without deceit,
lady, your false-failed serf
begs you for mercy.

Worth, not Pride, has flourished,
wherefore it'll be in you.