Like flitting Philomel, who flies so proudly free
having escaped the prison of her hated cage,
who goes among the wooded groves and greens
returning to her former happy life in liberty,
so had I escaped from love’s handcuffs,
scorning all suffering and the special bitter pain
of the sorrow beyond belief, reserved for the one
who has lost her soul through excess, loving love.
As the Cyprian knows well (oh, merciless star!)
I had gathered up my spoils from her temple
and for their proud price I had gone elsewhere;
when to me, Love said: I will alter
(to renew my pangs) your perverse will.
And made me your virtue’s prisoner.