Translated by David Young

    I'd sing of Love in such a novel fashion

    that from her cruel side I would draw by force

    a thousand sighs a day， kindling¹ again

    in her cold mind a thousand high desires；

    I'd see her lovely face transform quite often

    her eyes grow wet and more compassionate²，

    like one who feels regret， when it's too late，

    for causing someone's suffering by mistake；

    And I'd see scarlet³ roses in the snows，

    tossed by the breeze， discover ivory

    that turns to marble those who see it near them；

    All this I'd do because I do not mind

    my discontentment in this one short life，

    but glory rather in my later fame.