Into my heart a sure desire enters
that the slanderer can't ever destroy, nor the fingernail
of the slanderer, so long as against his evil speech I arm
   my soul,
and since he doesn't dare beat down my desire with branch
   or rod,
in secret at least I will enjoy my joy, in a place where I have
   no "uncle,"
in an apple orchard or in a private chamber.

When I remember the lady's private chamber
into which I know painfully that no man may enter,
in which I am far more than brother or uncle,
I have no member that doesn't tremble, down to my
   fingernail,
more freely than the child trembles before the rod;
when I have such fear, it's impossible to arm my soul.

I wish I belonged to her body, not her soul,
and that willingly she would hide me in her chamber.
I wound my body even more sorely with blows of the rod,
since I, her servant, cannot enter;
I will be like her flesh and her fingernail,
and I'll not believe any blame of her friend or uncle.