Do not pluck me,
Plucking me is too unfair.
I'm a willow near the pond by the Qu River,
this man broke me, that man plucked me:
Each one's love lasted only a moment.

Drop by drop and drip by drip, rain on the winding banks,
Pair by pair and one by one, mandarin ducks chatter.
Lush, lush, the fragrance of wild flowers,
Soft, soft, the yellow of the golden willow-threads
Lovely, lovely, the girls on the river,
Two by two, dancers beside the stream
Bright, bright, the gleam of silk and gauze robes,
Dainty, dainty, the adornments of cloud hair and cosmetics.

My love —
If you care to know (its quantity),
Count the number
Of the waves which may be approaching
The sea-shore at Tago.

Can even the God of Thunder
Whose foot-fall resounds
In the plains of the sky
Put asunder
Those whom love joins?

With amor first my riddle plaine to make,
I meane interpreting some paines to take,
Let the beginning put be to the end,
Looke on it then, you'le find it no mans friend;
Invert the letters, reade it backewards, then
O famous City it will be agen,
Make it two sillables, and then you'le see

Most rightly shewed Sir, what now you be,
Or , it is gold and am doth you denote,
Rightly will time you for the true gold coate:
Time well will note delaies of other men,
On what your love is set, time shewes againe,

If she you loved has proved unkind,
Love one that will be fonder;
Or, better, leave the town behind —
Strap wallet on, and wander!

You soon will reach a lake of blue
Enclosed by weeping willows;
There let your trivial tears bedew
The grass, and spare your pillows.

Then climb the rugged mountain sheer;
Though toil and stress confound you,
When you are on the top you'll hear
The eagles calling round you.

And free as they, and strong of wing,
Your life and strength renewing,
You'll think your loss a little thing,

Wild caresses, tender woes,
Dallying with the burning rose,
Fragrance sweet and lovely lies,
Passion rude in noble guise,
Love — its arts, its blisses, sighs —
Masters are the French in those.

For the art of hating, none
Like the Germans. Hate begun,
In the soul the drops distil
And the poison mounts until
There's enough at last to fill
Even Heidelberg's vast tun.

Unknown love
Is as bitter a thing
As the maiden-lily
Which grows in the thickets
Of the summer moor.

Those far-off fields, how fair they seem,
As soft through mists of years they gleam!
We never now around us see
Such meads as those of olden be;
We never find a lake or stream
One half so lovely as we deem
Those which we only view in dream,
Watering the fields of memory—
Those far-off fields!

And we were happy then! The theme
Of our existence, love supreme:
And looking back on Fate's decree—
On all that happened you and me—
We sigh—for dear our souls esteem
Those far-off fields!

O sea-gulls that are crying
On Sao river
How is it that,
Loving the river-beach,
You go further up the river?

(Answer)
To men indeed
We would say in general
" Our so much
Beloved river-beach
Do not snare with nets!"
(Then we will stay there).