I am the poet of the poor, because I was poor when I loved; since I could not give gifts, I gave words.

Even the Sun, whose star-born radianceGoverns all the world, became the thrall of love.

I got nervous at bulls and eagles,Trying to figure what shape Zeus might take for sexWhen it could be your turn next. But now I don't care any longer,I've come to my senses, your profile leaves me cold.Why am I different? you ask. I'll tell you. Because you keep naggingFor presents. That's what turns me off.

And besides, we lovers fear everything

We believe slowly when belief brings pain.

Every lover is a soldier.

Dicere quae puduit, scribere jussit amor

Between the houses was a common wall,Flawed with a narrow chink long years ago,When it was built. This chink, so long unnoticed-But what does it not see? - those lovers foundAnd made of it their voices' passageway,And safely flowed the whispered words of love

As many as the shells that are on the shore, so many are the pains of love; the darts that wound are steeped in much poison.