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O wretched Dorinda, where have you placed
Your hopes? Whence do you expect succor?
In beauty which feels not a spark
Of the flame of love which burns every lover.
You are like fire to me, yet you do not burn,
And you who inspire love feel it not.
You were born in human form
Of a most beautiful mother,
The lofty goddess whom Cyprus honors,
You have the arrows and the flame,
As my bosom, wounded and burnt, knows well.
Fasten wings to your shoulders,
And you would be a new Cupid,
Excepting that you have ice for a heart,
And you lack naught of Amor save love itself.
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