Solvi non possum, nisi magis constringar
Geluckich die int veldt, int midden van de lanssen
En van de sweerden bloot den droeven dans mach danssen,
Die wy al moeten gaen, en vallend' in het sandt
De leste voetval doet voor Godt en voor zijn landt.
Maer my ellendich mensch, die strijdt hebb' aengenomen
Vol vreucht en vol verdriet, wordt oock de doot benomen.
Mijn vyandt is mijn lief: die mij de strijdt aandoet
Die acht ick bovenal, die wensch ick dobbel goet.
Haer sweert is haer gesicht, de lanssen zijn haer woorden,
Daer zy my mede quetst: haer armen sijn de koorden,
Daer zy my mede bindt; de pijlen die ick vlie,
Dat sijn de oogen self, die ick soo geerne sie.
O vriendelick gewelt! waer soud' ick konnen loopen,
Daer ick gebonden ben met sulcke soete knoopen?
O vyandt die ick soeck! ô lijden sonder pijn!
Ick moest om los te gaen noch meer gebonden sijn.
Solvi non possum, nisi magis constringar
Happy the man in battle midst the pointed lances
Who by the unsheathed swords is forced to dance sad dances,
As all of us must do, and falling in the sand
His final footstep takes for God and for his land.
But I, oh wretched man, who battle has accepted
With all its joys and woes, from death have been excepted.
My foe is my sweet love: she who against me fights
I honour above all, would double her delights.
Her sword is her fair face, her lances are but her words
With which she torments me: her arms are the kindly cords
With which she binds me tight; the arrows which I flee
Are but her very eyes, which I so love to see.
Oh amicable force! Where could I try escaping
Since I am bound with knots so sweet of her own making?
Oh, foe that I would seek! Oh, suff’ring without pain!
Only with tighter bonds can I be free again.
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