Sonetto Poem by Francesco Berni

THE deuce, a roast of scraggy quails, a bit
Of salted pork to cram down a dry throat;
To be dead tired and find nowhere to sit;
To have the fire near by, the wine remote;
To pay cash down but to be paid at leisure;
To be compelled to grant a profitless boon;
Not to see aught when you've gone out on pleasure;
To stew in January as you did in June;
To have a pebble lurking in your boot;
To feel a flea a-running round about
Your stirrup-leg, inside your sock; to know
One hand is clean and one as black as soot,
One foot is with a shoe and one without,
To be kept waiting when you're wild to go;
Add to all this what tries you most in life,
Vexation, care, grief, every sort of strife,
You'll find that far away the worst's a wife.