Three times, four times, six times, he read the script,
Attempting still, unhappy wretch!, in vain,
(For the true meaning he would not accept)
To change the sense of what was clear and plain.
Each time he read, an icy hand which gripped
His heart caused him intolerable pain.
Then motionless he stood, his eyes and mind
Fixed on the stone, like stone inert and blind.

He seemed at last as if about to swoon,
So nearly was he vanquished by his grief.
Do not dismiss the truth of this too soon:
I speak here from experience, in brief.
Of all the sorrows which the pallid moon
Surveys, this sorrow offers no relief.
He stands dejected, brow and chin held low,
His grief obstructs his words, no tears can flow.

A flood of sorrow in his bosom stays,
And by its very impetus is checked:
As we may sometimes notice in a vase,
Broad-bellied in its shape and narrow-necked,
When someone has too fast upturned the base,
The liquid in the outlet will collect,
And there, in too great haste to issue, stop,
With difficulty dripping, drop by drop.

He comes then to himself, and thinks again
How he might prove the truth to be untrue:
Supposing somebody these words should feign
To slander his belovèd's name, or to
Torment him with such jealousy, the pain
Of which would bring him to his death, and who
This dastardly deceit to perpetrate
His lady's handwriting would imitate.

Upon such frail and slender premises
His spirits he contrives somewhat to rouse,
Then presses Brigliadoro with his knees,
For now the sister of Apollo was
Replacing him on high; and soon he sees
Smoke rising from the chimneys of each house,
He hears dogs bark, the homing cattle low,
And for a lodging yonder means to go.

He wearily dismounts and gives his horse
Into the care of a young stable lad.
One takes his arms and one his golden spurs,
And one to polish his cuirass is bade.
This was the shepherd's house, wherein, of course,
Medoro lay and his good fortune had.
The count requests a bed but will not eat.
Sated with grief, he wants no other meat.

Longing at last into a sleep to fall,
He is tormented by his pain the more.
The hated writing is on every wall,
On every window-frame, on every door.
Tempted to ask the reason for it all,
He hesitates, unwilling to be sure.
The truth, too clear, he shrouds in mistiness,
For thus he hopes that it will pain him less.

Now self-deception is of no avail:
Informant he is both and questioner.
The shepherd greatly wonders what can ail
The knight, so full of grief he seems and care.
He undertakes to tell the Count the tale
Of the two lovers who had sojourned there,
Which many folk with pleasure listened to
And which he hopes the knight some good may do.