Heavens, stars, deities,
who color the dawn,
I paint and sing with a melodious paintbrush,
with the brush of a quill, of the glories, beauty, and noble features of a Lady who
equals the heavens, stars, and deities.

Fair tresses,
that bring ruin
to the souls of men,
that weave
many bonds
around hearts,
they're the least among her treasures.

The lovely eyes,
that never tire of
wounding,
such sapphires
with beautiful motions
of noble mien,
let them be small heavens and burn forever.

Then a charming beauty spot
can be seen on the left cheek,
where nature placed it after having made
a pure and untainted face,
as the final mark of a beauty
beyond compare.

Of her lips and mouth,
that put to shame the pearls of Eritrea,
I'd like to say... but who can describe them?
In fact I don't know which are more beautiful,
the pearls in her mouth or those on her breast.

Enticing chains,
adorable haughtiness,
gentle disdain, honest glances,
sweet flames and precious deaths,
in all her acts reserved:
her features are majestic, her gait proud,
such that on the thrones of both kingdoms and passion
she can vanquish souls and crush hearts.

But of her intellect and her strength,
who can speak sufficient praises?
With the one she writes with wisdom on paper,
with the other she firmly holds the lance.
Thus in both peace and in war
one SOFIA on Earth is worth two Minervas.

But where, unskillful quill, do you attempt to fly,
since you're not from an eagle?
Her portrait is painted in brighter and
more noble colors in hearts than on paper.