Overwhelmed by laziness and melancholy,
I dream in a bed where I am bound,
Like a deboned hare sleeping in a pâté,
Or like a Don Quixote in his uneventful madness.
[adblock]There, without caring about the wars in Italy,
Nor the Palatine Count, nor its royalty,
I consecrate a beautiful hymn to this idleness
Where my soul languishes as if it were buried.
I find this pleasure so sweet and charming
That I believe that goods will come to me in sleeping,
Since I already see that my paunch is swelling,
And I hate work so much that, my eyes half-open,
One hand out of the sheets, dear Baudoin, just barely
have I been able to resolve to write you these lines.