Each one torments me mortally; and it serves me right, so help me
God, that in spite of myself I should still live on. For I ought
to have killed myself as soon as my lady the Queen showed her
hate for me; she did not do it without cause, but she had some
good reason, though I know not what it is. And if I had known
what it was before her soul went to God, I should have made her
such rich amends as would have pleased her and gained her mercy.
God! what could my crime have been? I think she must have known
that I mounted upon the cart. I do not know what other cause she
can have to blame me. This has been my undoing. If this is the
reason of her hate, God! what harm could this crime do? Any one
who would reproach me for such an act never knew what love is,
for no one could mention anything which, if prompted by love,
ought to be turned into a reproach. Rather, everything that one
can do for his lady-love is to be regarded as a token of his love
and courtesy. Yet, I did not do it for my `lady-love'. I know
not by what name to call her, whether `lady-love', or not. I do
not dare to call her by this name. But I think I know this much
of love: that if she loved me, she ought not to esteem me less
for this crime, but rather call me her true lover, inasmuch as I
regarded it as an honour to do all love bade me do, even to mount
upon a cart.
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