Is it true all Rome talks about you,
Cynthia,
and you live in unveiled wantonness?
Did I expect to deserve this?
I’ll deal punishment,
faithless girl,
and my breeze will blow somewhere else.
I’ll find one of all the deceitful women
who wishes to be made famous by my song,
who won’t taunt me with such harsh ways:
she’ll insult you:
ah, so long loved, you’ll weep too late.
Now my anger’s fresh:
now’s the time to go:
if pain returns, believe me, love will be back.
The Carpathian waves
don’t change in the northerlies as fast,
or the black storm cloud,
in a shifting southwest gale,
as lovers’ anger alters at a word.
While you can take your neck from the unjust yoke. Then you won’t grieve at all,
except for the very first night:
all love’s evils are slight,
if you are patient.
But, by the gentle laws of our lady Juno,
mea vita, stop hurting yourself on purpose.
It’s not just the bull that hits
out with a curving horn at its aggressor,
even a sheep, it’s true, opposes an enemy.
I won’t rip the clothes off your lying flesh,
or break open your shut doors,
or tear at your plaited hair in anger,
or dare to bruise you with my hard fists.
Let some ignoramus look for quarrels
as shabby as these,
a man whose head no ivy ever encircled.
I’ll go write:
what your lifetime won’t rub out:
‘Cynthia, strong in beauty:
Cynthia light of word.’
Trust me, though you defy scandal’s murmur,
this verse,
Cynthia, will make you pale.
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Is it true all Rome talks about you,
Cynthia,
and you live in unveiled wantonness?
Did I expect to deserve this?
I’ll deal punishment,
faithless girl,
and my breeze will blow somewhere else.
I’ll find one of all the deceitful women
who wishes to be made famous by my song,
who won’t taunt me with such harsh ways:
she’ll insult you:
ah, so long loved, you’ll weep too late.
Now my anger’s fresh:
now’s the time to go:
if pain returns, believe me, love will be back.
The Carpathian waves
don’t change in the northerlies as fast,
or the black storm cloud,
in a shifting southwest gale,
as lovers’ anger alters at a word.
While you can take your neck from the unjust yoke. Then you won’t grieve at all,
except for the very first night:
all love’s evils are slight,
if you are patient.
But, by the gentle laws of our lady Juno,
mea vita, stop hurting yourself on purpose.
It’s not just the bull that hits
out with a curving horn at its aggressor,
even a sheep, it’s true, opposes an enemy.
I won’t rip the clothes off your lying flesh,
or break open your shut doors,
or tear at your plaited hair in anger,
or dare to bruise you with my hard fists.
Let some ignoramus look for quarrels
as shabby as these,
a man whose head no ivy ever encircled.
I’ll go write:
what your lifetime won’t rub out:
‘Cynthia, strong in beauty:
Cynthia light of word.’
Trust me, though you defy scandal’s murmur,
this verse,
Cynthia, will make you pale.
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