L'aura che'l verde laura et l'aureo crine
soavemente sospirando move  
fa con sue viste leggiadrette et nove  
l’anime da’lor corpi pellegrine.   

Candida rosa nata in dure spine,  
quando fia chi sua pari al mondo trove?    
Gloria di nostra etate! O vivo Giove,
manda, prego, il mio in prima che’l suo fine!    

Si ch’io non veggia il gran pubblico danno        
e’l mondo remaner senza’l suo sole    
né li occhi miei, che luce altra non ànno; 

né l’alma, che pensar d’altro non vole,  
né l’orecchie, ch’udir altro non sanno,
senza l’oneste sue dolci parole.

The breeze that softly sighing moves the
green laurel and her golden hair, with sights
new and charming makes souls
wander from their bodies.

White rose born among hard thorns,
when will anyone find her like on earth?
Glory of our age! O living Jove,
send, I pray, my end before hers!

So that I may not see that great public loss,
and the world left without its sun,
nor my own eyes, which have no other light;

nor my soul, which does not wish to think of
anything else, nor my ears, which cannot hear
anything else, left without her chaste sweet words.