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.
But you shall not escape my iambics.
Away with you, water, destruction of wine!
I hate and I love, and who can tell me why?
Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then a thousand more.
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.