The man must lose his wits, who falls in love;
Deny him love, you doom the wretch to death,
And then it follows he must lose his breath.
Good sooth! there is a young and dainty maid
I dearly love, a minstrel she by trade;
What then? must I defer to pedant rule,
And own that love transforms me to a fool?
Not I, so help me! By the gods I swear,
The nymph I love is fairest of the fair;
Wise, witty, dearer to her poet's sight