His tears, his groans, his sobbings never cease.
All night, all day, in anguish and in pain,
Fleeing all habitats, he finds no peace.
Lying unsheltered on the hard terrain,
He marvels at the fount his eyes release,
That such a living spring they should contain.
His sighing too an endless rhythm keeps
And to himself he muses as he weeps.

'These are no longer tears I weep,' he said,
'Streaming so copiously from my eyes.
The tears were insufficient which I shed
To stay my grief, which all relief defies.
The vital humours, now by passion sped,
Through secret conduits to my orbs arise,
And thence these now exude, and with them pours
My life, thus ebbing to its final hours.

'These tokens which my torment manifest,
These are not sighs, no sighs resemble these,
For veritable sighs allow some rest.
But when these gusts come forth I feel no ease,
For Love, who burns my heart within my breast,
Fanning it with his wings, creates this breeze.
Love, by what miracle do you contrive
To burn my heart and keep it yet alive?

'I am not he, I am not he I seem.
He who Orlando was is dead and gone,
Slain by his lady, so untrue to him,
By her ingratitude, alas! undone.
I am his spirit whom the Fates condemn
To suffer in this dread infernal zone,
No body, but a shadow which must rove,
A warning to all those who trust in love.'