Italia mia, ben ch'el parlar' sia indarno
Ale piaghe mortali
Che nel' bel corpo tuo si spesse veggio,
Piacem'almen' ch'e' mia sospir' sien quali
Sper' il Tever' et l'Arno
El Po dove doglioso et grave hor' seggio.

Rector del' ciel', io cheggio
Che la pietache ti condusse in terra
Ti volgha al tuo dilect'almo paese:
Vedi, Signor' cortese,
Di che levi cagion che crudel guerra,
I cor', ch'indur'et serra
Marte superb' et fero,
Apri tu, padr', e’ntenerisci et snoda;
Ivi fa ch'el tuo vero,
Qual' to ml sia per la mia lingua s'oda

My Italy, though speech is of no avail
to the mortalwounds
that I see so thickly spread over your fair body,
I rejoice, however, that my sighs are t
he hopes of [the peoples of] the Tiber and the Arno
and the Po where I now sit grave and sorrowful.

Ruler of the heavens, I ask
that the compassion that guided You on earth
make You turn to Your fair beloved country.
Behold, kind Lord,
what slight causes brought on so cruel a war,
and the hearts that were hardened and shut
by Mars proud and fierce
open, Father, soften and unbind:
in them see to it that Your truth—
for as much as I am worth—may be heard from my tongue.

From falkenstein2011, p. 15