Every man now worships gold, all other reverence being done away.
No rival will steal away my sure love; that glory will be my gray hair.
That death is best which comes appropriately at a ripe age.
And nobility will not be able to help you with your love; Love does not know how to cede to ancestral images.
Even if my strength should fail, my daring will win me praise: in might enterprises even the will to succeed is enough.
Allow me, whom Fortune always desires to bury, lay down my life in these final trivialities. Many have freely died in longlasting loves, among whose number may the earth cover me as well.