Oh, happy Thyrsis, how thy lot doth move
My soul to envy! rightly, for I know
That it doth rise all lovers' lots above.
Absence alone displeaseth thee, and so
Firm and secure thou hast in Love a stay
Wherewith thy soul rejoiceth 'midst its woe.
Alas! where'er I go I fall a prey
Beneath the chilly scornful hand of fear,
Or with its cruel lance disdain doth slay!
Count life as death; although it doth appear