How love the limb-loosener sweeps me away
I took my lyre and said: come now, my heavenly tortoise shell: become a speaking instrument.
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.
In gold sandals / dawn like a thief / fell upon me.
Once again love drives me on, that loosener of limbs, bittersweet creature against which nothing can be done.
Death is an ill; 'tis thus the Gods decide: / For had death been a boon, the Gods had died.