Which young boy in a rose garden of blooming flowers
soaked in smelly perfume urges you, Phyrra, now
in your delicate cavern?
For whom tie you your yellow hair
back in simple restraint? How many times will he
shed tears over the changed fates, and your lack of faith
and be awed by the waves, rough
with black winds, in his ignorance?
He who now can enjoy you and believe you’re gold,
he who always expects you’ll be in love and free
from cares knows not a thing of
fallacy. How unhappy those
you lead on like a tease: I, with a picture of
my escape on the church wall, have been hanging up
soaking clothes that I give the
potent deity of the sea.
