The Harvesters

Its space must be filled;
It belongs to us as much as to Kings.
How worthy of envy I was
When I possessed my husband!
But the happiness of life
Too often moves away from us.
Time passes, etc.
Our fleeting course
Sufficiently dictates the use of our days;
It is the only good that one can do
Which makes them too long or too short.
Time passes, etc.

My good mother, here,
Here is the exact produce
Of the ears of grain I gleaned yesterday
After the Harvesters of that very righteous man,
The good Monsieur Candor.

Take care of yourself, however; you are delicate.

To help you, should I neglect anything?
I have enough strength not to be ungrateful.
One sees the first glimmer of the dawning day,
Shall I blow out the lamp now?

When one is in misfortune,
The smallest expense is costly.

Mother, you are sighing.

My daughter, you were not born
To spend such painful days with me.