| I do not think to touch the sky with my two arms |
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| She wrapped herself well in delicate hairy |
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| Spring's messenger, the sweet-voiced nightingale |
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| Raise high the roof-beam, carpenters. |
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| Immortal Aphrodite of the broidered throne |
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| As the sweet-apple blushes on the end of the bough |
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| The Stars about the fair in their turn hide their bright face |
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| As on the hills the shepherds trample the hyacinth under foot and the purple flower to earth |
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| Come, goddess of Cyprus, and in golden cups serve nectar delicately mixed with delights |
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| Do I still long for maidenhood? |
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