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First Line: Hail. And now farewell. For why would anyone go any further
Last Line: And surely (you will say) this [man's] love ought to be loved.


Hail. And now farewell. For why would anyone go any further?
Will you go where playful jesting does not call? Obviously
Reader, this is not the reason you will be ours; this book
does not aim at your pleasure. For neither does my page give
forth Acidalian dews nor does our breath favor Cupid's torch.
In vain will [Cupid] have promised to his wings anything from this:
in vain may [Venus] hope to depart with a
new heart from here. Better that he should ask for such favors
from his mother's myrtle, she from the heights of Ida. There
let her search out in which field her Adonis may rise that
may be a better home for her delicate violets. From there he
may fill his wings, she her bosom with the truths and the
wisdom of the whole Spring. My weed may crown me (still pure,
though it be rustic): my weed supports me (if it is rustic
let it be rustic). No cups of Circe, sweet and serviceable
for your lustful passion, overflow in my verse; no Lethe lies
concealed [in my verse], which the deceit of flowers pours out
for you, as the rose under false cheeks disguises itself; [here]
subtle poison counterfeits no sweets; no snare captures from
its ambush. Both anger and bitterness are well spared from
these pages. Ah poorly would either stand with these [pieces]
of mine. There is rarely a page that is funny; there is
never a page that is lewd:
there is nothing unsavory, if he could recognize good taste.
There are no nude Venuses: nor, if there is a joke, is it
wet [from wine]. Not too much was Baccus our Apollo.
There is nothing whose suggestive leer should make anyone
cringe; there is nothing which should be read with a smirk.
These things are in the open, and [even] Lucretia could read
with her righteous eyes: and modesty itself could go hence
with unblushing cheeks. For no purer breath of a chaste vow
comes bearing incense from the virgin dawn: girded with
garments with snowy folds, her temples gleaming with snow,
performing the cool rites with a bride's veil of snow on her
hair,poising her careful footprints step by step, at last
she stopped before the altars and trembled. And not the
solemn altar itself, which piously rejects impure hands,
breathes forth a more chaste [incense] to its own divinity.
So the too-golden Venus is not in our verse: so the fear-
some weapons of the boy god are not [in our verse]. Often
the boy had moved his fluttering wings around me and hurled
his fickle arrows before our face. Often that flatterer gave
me a quill from his own wing or from his mother's fairer swan.
Often he promised me garlands from the Dionaean crown; often
he said to me "You will be my bard." "Go far away, go with
your mother, wicked boy," I said: "you will not have any of
my verses. More gracefully you will go with the sparrow of the
Veronese [poet] or you may seek to be more fashionable in the style
of the Bilbilian one.
He will fix your hair in any style at all: at all points he
will be equal to your wickedness. Too much does that field
lie open to your battles (I said): Alas too much is he the
bard and too much yours. That soil (ah, how your adulterous
harvest [gathered from it] still burns) would have been how
greatly productive, [planted] with the seed of Idumaea! How
great a Boy would there press the breasts of how great a
Mother! And with a face not concealing his own heavens. In
that verse his eyes would be stars enough; how very safe in
his mother's star-studded embrace! How he would clasp both
his arms around his mother's neck and trace the shining curves
on her fair face! How she would kiss the cheeks of the boy
with her sweet lips and well might they bloom in his cheeks
like kindred roses! How would that moist gem which falls
so full of Mary learn there to swell under its own value!
The saintly Weeper would stand there before her Master.
Perhaps a light sigh would fly away or a sad tear would fall;
this the child of her eyes,that the offspring of her perfumed
heart. [In that verse] more beautifully would the flood
fall, more gently would the breeze blow. Finally whatever
seems dusky in these verses would gleam in those [of his].
Wicked one, is it not enough that he is still yours? Go, wicked
boy: for why do you flatter my songs? The songs from your
darts will be silent. Go, boy, where the reins of some saucy
maid [call] you; where the shameful scruples of a wanton
sweetheart call; where the lovely lies of miserable slime gleam
evilly;
where the white painted cheeks with counterfeit honor [lure];
where you will admire the roses, the stars of a foreign
spring; which the ransomed winter of snow not its own
cuts down. Go, boy (I said this, and I say it now), go
wicked mother. Another Cyprian holds us; another Love holds
us." Surely here is Love. Here too is the Mother of Love.
But the Mother is a virgin. And Love is not blind. "O Boy!
O Master! O the worship of the great Mother! sweet wonder
and piety of your embrace! O Love, who possess the sacred rites
of a harmless quiver, your arrow does not burn except
in a chaste heart. O Boy, pierce me whom you pierce with
a well-aimed arrow. O may your quiver become light because
of me. Thence also each thing thirsts and drinks, and drinks
and thirsts forever: forever may my heart thirst and forever
may it drink. Pierce this heart, Boy. You are present very
little in these thorns, much in the sharp point of nail or
spear, more with the whole cross, or most of all at last
you transfix this heart with your very presence. Pierce [me],
Boy. O may your bow have proclaimed this eternal aim: may
the heavier breath of your shaft whizz to this mark. O if
a fiercer wing should bear any dart for you, may it have this
path of the old wound to go. Whatever is the crowd, whatever
is the throng in your quiver, this nest will hold those
wounding birds well. O may you ever be so savage in this war
against me! Never may you enter this breast [as] a gentler foe.
How I wish I might lie well torn apart in this fight! How
very whole I will be with a torn heart!" These are my wishes.
These too are the wishes of my little book. May these be
yours, Reader; if you wish to be mine. If you wish to be
mine; to be mine (Reader) your eyes [should be] chaste, but
not, I pray, too dry. For let this [book] of mine have met
you with damp wings (with blood or with its tears may it
flow). Everything opens with the tree and is closed with
nails and spear: will your fountain be idle in [filling]
the rivers? If this little [book] of mine has gone to you
on a great stream of blood, will you deny it your waters,
cruel one? Ah cruel man! Whoever does not want my loves,
except dry-eyed, let him deny there is here a cause for his
tears. Often here will he have loved either the waters of
Magdalene or the floods; I do not believe your mind prefers
Assyrian riches. I suppose that fire will rekindle at your
fires: and perhaps that wave will swim in your waters.
Here you will be near [His] cradle and [His] body scented
for burial: hence the passions of a witness arise and thence
my passions. Here will you seek my joys with me and with
His Mother: a grown man or a fool may wish to be Prince;
or if He is hidden by the cave of His tomb (now a temple):
the third dawn will give Him back (but that is slow): Ah
(you will say), I pray that the shadows [of Hell] be loyal
and easy; while my light demands the help of night (a new
thing!). Finally, whatever my writings may say of my Love
However it fears him or weeps, (you will say)
these [pieces] show too little joy but still they are sweet:
and surely (you will say) this [man's] Love ought to be loved.






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