“It is difficult to suddenly give up a long love. Difficile est longum subito deponere amorem”

I hate and I love, and who can tell me why?

So a maiden, whilst she remains untouched, so long is she dear to her own; when she has lost her chaste flower with sullied body, she remains neither lovely to boys nor dear to girls.

For the godly poet must be chaste himself, but there is no need for his verses to be so.

Who now travels that dark path from whose bourne they say no one returns. [Lat., Qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum Illue unde negant redire quemquam.]

I write of youth, of love, and have access by these to sing of cleanly wantonness.

But you shall not escape my iambics.

My mind’s sunk so low, Claudia, because of you, wrecked itself on your account so bad already, that I couldn’t like you if you were the best of women, -or stop loving you, no matter what you do.

To whom do I give my new elegant little book? Cui dono lepidum novum libellum?

We see not our own backs.

I can imagine no greater misfortune for a cultured people than to see in the hands of the rulers not only the civil, but also the religious power.

I hate and I love. And if you ask me how, I do not know: I only feel it, and I am torn in two.

I hate and love. And why, perhaps you’ll ask. I don’t know: but I feel, and I’m tormented.

What women say to lovers, you’ll agree, One writes on running water or on air.

Stop wishing to merit anyone’s gratitude or thinking that anyone can become grateful.

What woman says to fond lover should be written on air or the swift water. [Lat., Mulier cupido quod dicit amanti, In vento et rapida scribere oportet aqua.]

My lady’s sparrow is dead, the sparrow which was my lady’s delight