What will you say tonight, poor lonely soul,
What will you say old withered heart of mine,
To the most beautiful, the best, most dear,
Whose heavenly regard brings back your bloom?
We will assign our pride to sing her praise:
Nothing excels the sweetness of her will;
Her holy body has an angel's scent,
Her eye invests us with a cloak of light.
Whether it be in night and solitude,
Or in the streets among the multitude,
Her ghost before us dances like a torch.
It speaks out: 'I am lovely and command
That you will love only the Beautiful;
I am your Guardian, Madonna, Muse!'