Jove warns us with his lightning first,
  Before he sends his thunder;
Before the cock begins to crow,
  He claps his wings down under.
But I, who go to see a maid,
  This springtime in the morning,
Fall under every spell she has,
  Without a word of warning.

She little thinks what charms her breath
  To cunning eyes reveal;
The waves that down her body glide,
  That from her bosom steal.
Her moth-like plumpness caught my eye,
  I watched it like a spider;
By her own hair my web is made,
  To fasten me beside her.