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.
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.
Love - bittersweet, irrepressible - loosens my limbs and I tremble.
I would not think to touch the sky with two arms