Thus saith my Cloris bright,
when we of Love sit downe and talke together,
Beware of Love, deere, Love is a walking sprite,
And Love is this and that,
And O I wot not what,
And comes and goes againe,
I wot not whither,
No, no, these are but bugs to breed amazing,
for in her eies I saw his torch light blazing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem