Ballad Viii Poem by Christine de Pizan

In this sad world have pity, my lady dear,
Dear to me more than any other there :
Their pride you know not ; let not gracious cheer
Cheer me at so great cost, oh white and fair !
Fare I thus ill, yet canst thou bid me see
Seasons of solace that may comfort me.

If for unfitness I be slighted here,
Here am I dead, and arrows of despair
Spare not to pierce my heart, and life grows drear,
Drear as my brooding on the doom I bear.
Bear witness, Love withholds in obduracy
Seasons of solace that might comfort me.

O loveliest one and sweetest, without peer,
Peerless in honour, of all bounties heir,
Ere I thy servant pine in sorry fear
Fear not a kind and gentle guise to wear.

Where shall I find, 'mid this deep dolorous sea,
Seasons of solace that may comfort me?

Dear Lady, grant in gracious courtesy
Seasons of solace that may comfort me.