The savage Mother of that child Cupid
And Bacchus, the boy of Theban Semele,
And wanton License command me to return
My heart to finished loves.
The brightness of that courtesan Glycera burns me,
More refined than Parian marble, gleaming;
Her welcome audacity burns me
And the face too hazardous to look at.
All of Venus charges against me
She has left Cyprus, and suffers neither talk
Of the Scythians or Partha, bold with turned horses,
Nor those things which hold on to nothing.
Put fresh grass for me here, and here
Put aromatic branches, my boy, and position
The incense with a bowl of two year old wine:
The beguiled victim comes slaughtered.