188

Free my gentle lamb, shepherd unknown,
for you've another that is more like you;
let go the creature that my soul adores,
whose loss you celebrate and I must rue.

Put back on her the bell of well-wrought tin,
and don't deceive her with your chains of gold;
accept for all your troubles this white bull
which when spring comes will be just one year old.

If you require description, she's got fleece
that's brown and curly, and her little eyes
look like she just woke up, as there she stands.

If you think, Alsino, she's not mine,
just let her go and see her find my hut:
her owner's still got salt upon his hands.