For oft the grace

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

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

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.

The spotless maid is like the blooming rose Which on its native stem unsullied grows; Where fencing walls the garden-space surround, Nor swains, nor browsing cattle tread the ground. But if some hand the tender stalk invades, Lost is its …

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?

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.