Mourn, oh Venuses and Cupids,
and whatever there is of the more charming people:
The sparrow of my girl is dead,
the sparrow, delight of my girl,
which she used to love more than her own eyes—
for it was honey sweet and had known
her own mistress herself as well as a girl (knows) her mother,
nor did it used to move itself from the lap of that (woman),
But, hopping around now here now there
It used to chirp constantly to its mistress alone:
Which now goes through that shadowy journey
whence they say no one returns.
But let it be bad for you, evil shadows of Orcus
You which devour all beautiful things:
You who took so beautiful a bird from me
Oh evil deed! Oh poor little sparrow!
Now the little eyes of my girl, swollen with sobbing,
Are reddened by your deed.
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