No greater pain in the world

Keeping on our pain theme, we have this Italian song or opera aria, written or set to music or both by Luca Marenzio, which I found randomly on Google sometime in 2011, translated the first verse of into English soon afterwards, on Sep 28 (verse 1 is translated in a file of that date with creation time 14:46 and edit time 15:33), and the rest was translated into English only on Aug 31 2012. I'm not gonna lie: I completely ignored any tune this might have had, and treated it as a poem, simply keeping meter and rhymes. Also, "foglie" should probably be "voglie", making "lighted leaves" actually be "burning wishes" or the likes. I was unable to find a video, I only found the score and a midi, and a weird .capx file I have no idea whether I can open or not. Let's see it!

Non è dolor nel mondo Né nel più oscur abisso e più profondo, Par a quel d’un meschin servo d’Amore Ch’in alta donna abbia locato il core. Pasce l’alma dolente Di speme, di speranza eternamente Né d’altro sazia le sue foglie accese Che d’un sol sguardo, una o due volte il mese. E s’ella aprendo un riso Gli volge a sorte e non ad arte il viso, Reputa cortesia quel don che viene Da puro caso e sé felice tiene. E poi ch’ha speso il giorno In girarsi a l’amato albergo intorno, Passa la notte ragionando in vano Col ritratto di lei che porta in mano. Dunque lasciate, amanti, Questo amor senza frutto e, da vacanti, Amate donna tal, di cui possesso Prender possiate e tenir sempre appresso.

In the world there’s no sorrow, Nor in the darkest depth of any morrow, As great as what the wretched lovers tames That place their passion unto noble dames. Their grieving souls they feed With hope, with hope alone of what they need Nor do they fill their lighted leaves with aught But one look, once or twice a month to ’em brought. If she, opened a smile, By chance, not by art, on them turns her eye, They hold a courtesy that gift which comes From purest chance and gladness to him comes. And as they’ve spent the day Going around the loved house all the way, They spend the night in speaking fruitlessly To her portrait which in their hand they see. So listen, lovers: leave Such fruitless love and, as you’re free, believe It best to love one, whom you can possess Nor e’er lose after for unlovingness.