We present this work in honor of the 445th anniversary of the poet’s death.

 

A thousand times I say, in Galatea’s
arms, that she’s more lovely than the sun;
then she, with a sweet look, disdainfully,
tells me, “My Tyrsis, do not tell me that.”

I try to swear it, and she, suddenly,
her face now blazing with a rosy hue
restrains me with a kiss and hastily
my words with her own lips seeks to combat.

I struggle with her mildly to break free,
and she holds me more tightly and then says,
“Don’t swear, my love, I know it’s not a lie.”

With this she so completely shackles me
that Love, a witness to our gentle play,
causes with deeds my hope to satisfy.

Translation by Alix Inber