Addressed to Cynthia
1 Here is deserted, quiet, for one in need,and Zephyr's air sits on the vacant grove.
Here one can release hidden grief freely,
if only the rocks can keep quiet.
Where can I first locate your contempt, my Cynthia?
What beginning of crying, Cynthia, do you give me?
Once I was numbered among happy loves,
now I am disgraced in yours.
What'd I do? Which poem of mine changed you?
You think I've got a new girlfriend?
If so, come back, dove, as not one other girl
has traipsed her lovely feet across my threshold.
My grief owes much of its bitterness to you,
but my rage won't come so rashly that I stay
(though deservedly) mad at you always, your eyes
sullied with crying of so many tears.
Is it because my color shows no change,
and assurance doesn't scream in my expression?
You'll be witnesses, if a tree has loves,
beech and pine dear to the Arcadian god,
how often my words resound under your delicate shade
and is written in your bark the name, Cynthia!
Because your injury produced my problems?
These things are kept behind locked doors.
Timid, I preferred to endure my proud one's
every command and not complain in shrill distress.
In exchange, I get holy fountains, cold
rock, and no peace on this overgrown path.
Whatever my complaints can narrate
I am constrained, alone, to tell the shrill birds.
But however you are, let the woods echo my “Cynthia”
and let the rocks be full of your name.