Away with you, water, destruction of wine!
I hate and love. You ask, perhaps, how can that be? I know not, but I feel the agony.
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.
I write of youth, of love, and have access by these to sing of cleanly wantonness.
My mind's sunk so low, Claudia, because of you, wrecked itself on your account so bad already, that I couldn't like you if you were the best of women, -or stop loving you, no matter what you do.