What is to end this crime, what Roman
nobility? Our love is divided
by the same miles dividing Venice from Hypanis.
Our love is neglected. I no longer hear,
Cynthia, that sweetest sound.
You were gratified, for a time,
to hold me with undying faith,
before envy flared. Do the gods ordain it?
Does Prometheus divide the herb?
I am changed by purity.
How large our fleeting love!
Our first and longest lonely nights
weigh heavy on the soul.
There is no end to the great tears of love
I am love’s feeble translator.
I have no other desires.
Cynthia is first, and Cynthia will finish me.