Better a sparrow, living or dead, than no birdsong at all.
I write of youth, of love, and have access by these to sing of cleanly wantonness.
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.
Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then a thousand more.
What women say to lovers, you'll agree, One writes on running water or on air.
So a maiden, whilst she remains untouched, so long is she dear to her own; when she has lost her chaste flower with sullied body, she remains neither lovely to boys nor dear to girls.