“while Hesperus over the waters broadens his rosy face,
and the waves are lapping the shore.”
Alas for sad Love! how the Muses he hates; how the poet he shatters
with lust, or with jealousy kills!
But who from thine eyes and the wars they are plotting afar,
O Lalage, who shall protect?
Pluck for the Muses three boughs of sacred laurel and myrtle,
wave them in sunlight eternal!
Seest thou not from Peschiera how the flocks of white swans are swimming
down through the silvery Mincio?