Ch’alzar non oso i mie’ ardenti desiri;
Se ’l ver non è, che tiri
La mente al ciel per grazia o per mercede:
Tardi ama il cor quel l’occhio non vede.
Though true it be, that Charity divine
Show mirrored in yon lovely face of thine,
Yet, lady, moves the distant hope so slow,
That from thy beauty I lack power to go;
The pilgrim soul, that would with thee delay,
Finds rough and stern the strait and narrow way.