I do not know what to do, my mind's in two.
Love - bittersweet, irrepressible - loosens my limbs and I tremble.
Love is a cunning weaver of fantasies and fables.
Would Jove appoint some flower to reign, in matchless beauty on the plain, the Rose (mankind will all agree). The Rose the queen of flowers should be.
I took my lyre and said: come now, my heavenly tortoise shell: become a speaking instrument.
Eros harrows my heart: wild gales sweeping desolate mountains, uprooting oaks.