In early spring the gold Cydonian apples,
Water'd by streams from ever-flowing rivers,
Where the pure garden of the Virgins is,
And the young grapes, growing beneath the shade
Of ample branches, flourish and increase:
But Love, who never rests, gives me no shade,
Nor any recruiting dew; but like the wind,
Fierce rushing from the north, with rapid fire,
Urged on by Venus, with its maddening drought
Burns up my heart, and from my earliest youth,