English

O Rose-Fed Bee, why hast thou come
When flowers thy presence seek,
And dare to touch the fragrant bloom
Of Heliodora's cheek?

Is this thy message: that Love's sting
May never find relief
And that within the sweetest thing
There lurks a hidden grief?

Ah, little friend, thy word is vain
And vain thy help, I trow:
Quick backward fly nor waste thy pain,
Too well the truth I know.

Your eyes, Asclepias, have the pride
Of waves in summer weather,
Alluring all men to your side
To sail Love's sea together.

Oft would she gaze from out the lattice high,
Her cheeks with longing wet, and lonely cry
Till he came to her door.
But Cleophon's blue eyes with their bright fire
Have dried her tears and filled her heart's desire,
And now she weeps no more.

Now the white violets bloom, and now
The bluebells drink the rain,
And straying o'er the mountain's brow
The lilies flower again.
Spring perfumes sweet men's hearts enthral,
But Zeno's sweeter far than all.

In vain ye smile, O meadows gay!
The allurement of the rose
Outshines the blossoms ye display,
Her beauty warmer glows.
Lovers must choose my Zeno fair,
The rose of love beyond compare.

Three Charms the fairies to my Zeno gave
And said — With these Love's empire thou shalt have.

Wise words Persuasion's help desire,
The Muses love the sounding lyre,
And Love does ever shine more fair
When Heniochus is there.

By thee I swore I'd keep away
And from my love two nights would stay;
Dear Venus, when I made the vow
Right merry was your laugh, I trow.

You knew full well I could not bear
More than one night without my dear,
And now that night is left behind
I cast my promise to the wind.

'Twere better, sure, my vow to break
Since it will be for Love's dear sake;
Rather than keep my oath to thee
And die of my own piety.

What feet she has, what legs, what waist, what thighs,
What shoulders, breast, what tender neck and eyes!
I rave, I die to touch her rosy arms,
Her round perfections and her secret charms.
How sweet her kisses after other lips,
How quick the movement of her swaying hips.
How soft her voice when at Love's hour she cries:
" Oh let me die in these dear ecstasies."
Her name is Flora — true: she knows no Greek,
Nor any language but her own to speak;
But what is that to me? Did Perseus fear
To wed Andromeda, his Indian dear?

When fair Xanthippi strikes the lyre,
Her dulcet voice, her speaking eye
Kindle within my soul a fire
Responsive to the melody.

When, where and how my passion came
I know not and I may not tell:
But that I burn in love's fierce flame
My heart knows all too well.

Why so mournful, pretty maid?
Why these sobs and sighs,
Hair all loose and disarrayed,
Languid streaming eyes?
Did you your false lover see
With another on his knee?

Tell me all your trouble, dear,
Let me heal your grief.
Prithee, wipe away that tear;
Speech will bring relief.
Though your tongue may dumb remain,
In your eyes the truth is plain.