Who now travels that dark path from whose bourne they say no one returns.
[Lat., Qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum
Illue unde negant redire quemquam.]
Better a sparrow, living or dead, than no birdsong at all.
It is difficult to lay aside a confirmed passion.
Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then a thousand more.
I hate and I love. And if you ask me how, I do not know: I only feel it, and I am torn in two.
Ah, what is more blessed than to put cares away, when the mind lays by its burden, and tired with labor of far travel we have come to our own home and rest on the couch we longed for? This it is which alone is worth all these toils.
But you shall not escape my iambics.
For the godly poet must be chaste himself, but there is no need for his verses to be so.
Every one has his faults: but we do not see the wallet on our own backs.
I hate and I love. Perchance you ask why I do that. I know not, but I feel that I do and I am tortured.
[Lat., Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris. Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.]
Now Spring restores the balmy heat, now Zephyr's sweet breezes calm the rage of the equinoctial sky.
Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love. Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus
Give up wanting to deserve any thanks from anyone, or thinking anybody can be grateful.
Nothing is more silly than silly laughter.
So a maiden, while she remains untouched, remains dear to her own; but when she has lost her chaste flower with sullied body, she remains neither lovely to boys nor dear to girls.
My lady's sparrow is dead, the sparrow which was my lady's delight
Godlike the man who
sits at her side, who
watches and catches
which (softly) tears me
to tatters: nothing is
left of me, each time
I see her...
I hate and love. You ask, perhaps, how can that be? I know not, but I feel the agony.
There is nothing more foolish than a foolish laugh. Risu inepto res ineptior nulla est
What women say to lovers, you'll agree, One writes on running water or on air.
I hate and I love, and who can tell me why?
Away with you, water, destruction of wine!
We see not our own backs.
What woman says to fond lover should be written on air or the swift water.
[Lat., Mulier cupido quod dicit amanti,
In vento et rapida scribere oportet aqua.]
Oh, this age! How tasteless and ill bred it is!
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