Why is it coy and cruel,
Adding to my fire more fuel?
Alas! Alas! it has no care,
Free as the birds which flit in air,
Nor heedfulness has any,
Else were its kindness not so rare,
Its victims then so many.
Ah! fair Filamelle, have pity on my moan,
Else must I die alone,
My heart is like a stone.