And
on the altar of my patron [Saint]
I
place fragrant herbs
I, poor, do not have for you
Silver or gold
But with prayers [your] orphan
Gathers your grace
They
marvel at themselves, are strangers
Even
the richest
Boys
court me
Although
I don’t [even] look at them
That I am pretty I always
Heard, already as a child
They say it for true
In the company of confidants
Let them desire something for themselves there, with
[their] talk
Nothing
will come of it
To
the maidens of the world it’s an insult
When
they don’t guard the crown
I
don’t listen to any of them, I listened to the noise of the Wisła
[Anyone] who does not desire[1] as a
best man, [who] approaches me as a seducer
No comments:
Post a Comment