Pos trobars plans Es volguz tan Fort m'er greu s'i non son sobrans: Car ben pareis Qi tals motz fai C'anc mais non foron dig cantan, Qe cels c'om tot jorn ditz e brai Sapcha, si·s vol, autra vez dir.	Since plain style is so much in vogue, it'll grieve me if I don't excel in it: for one would expect him who writes such words as never before had been put to music to be otherwise able, if he wishes, to sing what people sing and cry every day.
Mos ditz es sans, Don gap, ses dan. Per tal joi soi coindes e vans, Qe mais val neis Desirs q'ieu n'ai D'una qe anc no·m ac semblan (pels sainz c'om qer en Verzelai!) D'autre joi c'om puesca jauzir!	My writing, of which I boast, is sensible and harmless. I am pleasant and vain because of a joy such as even the desire it consists of, – that for a woman who hasn't even ever looked like she'd like me, by all the saints one seeks in Vézelai – is worth more than any other joy one could enjoy.
Son ben aurans! C'ar, per talan Solamen, so francs et humans, De dir ves leis Ben, ni·m fas gai. Qe·m val si per lieis trag mal gran? Si lo mal q'en trac no sap lai, Mi eis voil d'aitan escarnir.	I'm rather insane. Since now, out of desire alone, I am earnest and kind in writing about her good things, and I gladden myself with it. What does it avail me, if I suffer great ills for her sake? If she doesn't know, there [where she is], about the ills I suffer, I am making a fool of myself, so far.
Ben so trafans Q'eu eis m'engan, Car dic aiso tan qe vilans! – cals pros me creis S'ieu lo mal trai Per leis, s'il no sapia l'afan? – no m'es doncs pros e be no·m vai Si·m pens qe tan ric joi desir?	I am a traitor indeed for I deceive myself by saying that, just as a churl would. – What advantage accrues to me if I suffer for her, if she doesn't know my anguish? – isn't it, then, valiant and doesn't it avail me, just thinking that I desire such a noble joy?
Mos volers cans Qe·m sal denan Me fai creire qe futz es pans. Tan aut mespreis Mon cor, car sai Q'enfol. M'aurei donc faz l'efan? – Tot voll cant vei. – Respeit segrai. – Respeitz loncs fai omen perir.	My doggone desire, which mounts before me, makes me believe that wood is bread. I despise myself so much because I know I'm going insane. Should I have acted like a child, then? – I want everything I see. – I shall keep expecting. – A long expectation makes one die.
Sains Julians! Con vauc torban! Soi serrazis o crestians? Qals es ma leis? Non sai. Qe jai Me posca, de so qe·il deman, Et atrestan tost, Dieus, si·l plai, Co fes vin d'aiga, devenir.	Saint Julian, How troubled I am! Am I Saracen or Christian? Which is my belief? I don't know. Now may god, if he pleases, as fast as he turned water into wine, grant me what I long for.
Pauc soi certans! (ves qe·us reblan, Domna.) de vos so molt londans! Anc no·m destreis Amors tan mai; Per q'ieu non creiria d'un an C'aissi·us ames per negun plai, Si bes no m'en degues venir.	I have little certitude! (I court you, as you see, lady.) I am far away from you! Never before did Love have me so much in its grip; so that I wouldn't believe in a year that I could love you so unconditionally if no good were to come from it.
Astrius e ma chanso vos man, Qe dos sautz si rics ar essai; Lo ters aut on plus pot om dir.	I send you Astrius ad my song, for I now attempt two fine leaps, the third [being] as high as one can possibly tell.