Chi non ne vive non è nato ancora
Perché pur d’ora in ora mi lusinga
la memoria degli occhi e la speranza,
per cui non sol son vivo, ma beato;
la forza e la ragion par che ne stringa,
Amor, natura e la mie ‘ntica usanza,
mirarvi tutto il tempo che m’è dato.
E s’i’ cangiassi stato,
vivendo in questo, in quell’altro morrei;
né pietà troverei
ove non fussin quegli.
O Dio, e’ son pur begli!Chi non ne vive non è nato ancora;
e se verrà dipoi,
a dirlo qui tra noi,
forz’è che, nato, di subito mora;
ché chi non s’innamora
de’ begli occhi, non vive.

Who is not alive to this is not yet born
Then, because from hour to hour it flatters me,
this memory of eyes and hope
by which I’m blessed, not just alive,
force and reason seem to constrain me,
Love, nature and my antique trope,
to gaze at you for all the time I have.
To change, if I would have,
living in this way, in that other I would die;
for this I would find mercy,
if it would not have been these.
O God, and they are chaste beauties!
Who is not alive to this is not yet born
and if one follows after us,
to say it here between us,
he is quickly made to die, once born;
so he who does not fall in love
with beautiful eyes, does not live.