'Twas in the Calends of the month of May,
I went into the garden for a flower,
A wild bird there I saw upon a spray,
Singing of love with skilled melodious power.
O little bird, who dost from Florence speed
Teach me whence loving doth at first proceed?
Love has its birth in music and in songs
Its end, alas! to tears and grief belongs.
Era di maggio, se ben mi ricordo
Quando c'incominciammo a ben volere