Wounded, I pray my wounder to beware
Lest me, by plucking out her barb, she slay;
For many dying I have seen, that were
Not killed by wound, but weapon drawn away.
For this I will my wound in quiet bear,
And live with patience, if but live I may;
For all he conquers, who will not despair;
A man by patience wins in every fray.
I ask then of thy mercy, O my light,
Sweet lady, and my solace all alone,
Withdraw not from my deadly wound thy spear;
Choose not, for God’s love, I should perish quite;
My sorrow’s port I hope to find anon;
My heart has learnt not by long pain to veer.
Bonaggiunta Urbisani (c. 1220 – 1290) Italy
Translated by Charles Bagot Cayley