La ci darem la mano, la mi dirai di si,
vedi, non e lontano, partiam, ben mio da qui.

Vorrei, e non vorrei, mi trema un poco il cor,
felice, e ver, sarei, ma puo burlarmi ancor

Vieni, mio bel diletto, io cangiero tua sorte


Andiam,andiam mio bene, a ristorar le pene d'un innocente amor


--
There will be entwining of hands, where you will say yes,
Look, it's at hand, let's depart from here, you and me

I will and I won't, my heart trembles at once
Happy, I'm sure, I will be, but it may be just a tease

Come, my sweet beauty, I will change your life

Let's go, let's go, my love, to heal the pain and woe of innocent love


(Don Giovanni, WA Mozart)

La donna e mobile, qual piuma al vento
muta d'accento e di pensiero
Sempre un amabile, leggiadro viso
in pianto o in riso, e menzognero

E sempre misero, chi a' lei s'affida
chi le confide mal cauto il cuore
Pur mai non sentesi felice appieno
chi su quel seno non liba amore

--
Woman is fickle, as feather in a breeze
she changes her tone and thought
Always lovely, graceful visage
in tears or cheers, is deceitful

And always in misery is he who trust in her
he who confides in her his reckless heart
But one shall never fully joyful
he who from the bosom does not drink love

(La donna e mobile, Giuseppe Verdi)

She gazed at an empty space
Upon her visage was a stream of tears
Her quavering hand buried her face
From which a muffled sob was heard

Convulsed with utmost anguish
She delivered so dolorous a glare
Between wails she divulge me
Blighted with banes, a saddest word

What shall I descry of she?
A fine lady girded with fears and sorrows
A great burden was upon her bosom
And she blamed herself of all failures

Lonely is she, sad is she
She speak with composure of despair
Stared up to a pale moon
And dipped in severe solitude

Yet perhaps she doesnt perceive
A man who cares for her
A man who unceasedly praying
That her misery are his also

When a sea of sorrows extant before her
Know that a man is pining
for her to share the burden
and to confide to his arms

He asked, and asked and asked
What impede him from loving her?
She only learned that when she craves for consoles
There will always a man present to comfort her

Of countless women breathing upon the earth
I choose thee
Of thousands drones and wails
I choose thine

Lovely whisper and pleasant smile
Supplier of great consolations
Stealer of mine soul
When she whispers so sincere a wish

Sometimes in a lonely night
Sweet sounds of her mirth
Humming inside my head
Embellish my dreams a thousand folds

So enchanting is she
When I unseal my eyes
Stares into a delirium of a lovely smile
That when I come to myself
I yearn to dream again

Oblivion

Here beneath the starry night
A dream passed by without a word
Like a grim shade creeping and swearing
Revealing crowns of a fiendish woes
Which no man ever to contend

In yonder a sound of anguish
Lurking beyond vision
While a thousand began to shift
Ascending without entrance
And scattering without assuage

Lost in each tread it paces
In a dolorous mist yet to disperse
Leaving gaudiness and solaces behind
And shadowed in unending agitation
Coming back is what it cries for

To Be or Not to Be

To be or not to be , that is the question:
Whether it is nobler to lead a life of total seclusion
a shield of oneself against waves of avarice and desperation
and thence sustaining a complete ignorance and desolate action
or to take arms against an unending secular abyss
to preach, to impart, to negate and hence remnant of no debris

To be or not to be, that is the question:
Whether it is subtler a prayer of solution
to which it is conferred to single libation
a singular soul consoled to deep resolution
or to stand up shining before the tumultuous bodies
foundations to shift, believes to steer, winner of countless follies

To be or not to be, that is the question:
Whether it is more decent of a propagation
marching in a horde of splendid devotion
composing thousands of salvation tales under Her protection
or to tread in solitude, calling but to aids unseen
to bear, to grow,craving for great triumphs in between

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause – there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of disprized love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered.

(Shakespeare)