The spotless maid is like the blooming rose

So from a water clear, the trembling light Of Phoebus, or the silver queen of night, Along the spacious rooms with splendour plays, Now high, now low, and shifts a thousand ways.

Ah! why so rare does cruel Love inspire Two tender bosoms with a mutual fire? Say, whence, perfidious, dost thou pleasure find To sow dissension in the human mind?

My endeavour has been to render the sense of my author as nearly as possible, which could never be done merely by translating his words.

What has that wretched damsel left to boast, What good on earth, whose virtuous praise is lost?

Love what we see can from our sight remove, And things invisible are seen by Love.

The youth, who pants to gain the amorous prize, Forgets that Heaven with all-discerning eyes Surveys the secret heart; and when desire Has, in possession, quenched its short-lived fire, The devious winds aside each promise bear, And …