Happily now on classical soil I feel inspiration.

          Voices from present and past speak here evocatively.

        Heeding ancient advice, I leaf through the works of the Ancients

          With an assiduous hand. Daily the pleasure's renewed.

        Throughout the night, in a different way, I'm kept busy by Cupid —

          If erudition is halved, rapture is doubled that way.

        Do then I not become wise when I trace with my eye her sweet bosom's

          Form, and the line of her hips stroke with my hand? I acquire,

        As I reflect and compare, my first understanding of marble,

          See with an eye that feels, feel with a hand that sees.

        While my beloved, I grant it, deprives me of moments of daylight,

            She in the nighttime hours gives compensation in full.

        And we do more than just kiss; we prosecute reasoned discussions

          (Should she succumb to sleep, that gives me time for my thoughts).

        In her embrace – it's by no means unusual – I've composed poems

          And the hexameter's beat gently tapped out on her back,

        Fingertips counting in time with the sweet rhythmic breath of her slumber.

          Air from deep in her breast penetrates mine and there burns.

        Cupid, while stirring the flame in our lamp, no doubt thinks of those days when

            For the triumvirs he similar service performed.

        "Can you be cruel enough to sadden me thus with reproaches?

          Germans speak, I suppose, bitterly when they're in love.

        Bear it I must when the gossips bring forth accusations: I'm guilty —

          Or am I not? But, alas, all of my guilt was with you.

        Clothes that you've given bear witness for envious neighbors

            That the poor widow no more grieves for her husband alone.

        Did you not thoughtlessly visit me in the disguise of a cleric,

            Muffled all up in a cloak, hair all rounded behind?

        Who was it chose that gray monk if not you? Well then a prelate

          Now is my lover – Ah, who is my prelate but you?

        Never, incredible as it may sound in this clerical city,

          Has any cleric brought me – swear it I will – to his bed.

        I was sufficiently poor, sad to say. I was young. The seducers

          Noted it well. Falconier ogled me often enough.

        One of the pimps for Albani with billets doux very impressive

          Called me to Ostia once. Quattro Fontani next time.

        Who was it did not appear there? Why, who but the very same girl who

          Hated with all of her heart stockings both violet and red.

        For: 'In the end you poor girls are the ones who are sure to be cheated.'

          So said my father although – Mother was not much impressed.

        Father was right. Here I stand in the end being cheated and scolded.

          You don't believe your own words. They're your excuse to escape.

        Go, then. Unworthy of women are men. We, who carry your children

          Next to our hearts, in these hearts loyalty we bear you, too.

        As for you men, when you've poured out your potency in our embraces

          And your desires dissipate, love with them passes away."

        These things expressed, and taking her child from its chair, my beloved

          Presses it close to her heart, kisses it, tears in her eyes.