A LOVER GRATEFUL FOR THE FLATTERING LIES OF A DREAM

Ah, Floralba!, I dreamt that... Shall I say it?
Yes, for dream it was: that we made love.
And who, if not a lover who was dreaming,
could blend with such a heaven such a hell?

My flames then with your snow and with your ice,
as often with his quiver's different darts,
Love sought to mix, and mixed quite decently,
my wakeful adoration to match well.

And I said: "May Love, may my fate decree
that I should never sleep, if I'm awake,
and if I sleep now, never leave this bed."

But from this sweet discord I soon awoke;
and I found that I was alive with death,
and I found that with living I was dead.