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Poetry of love, scattered conceits
engendered by my soul upon my woes,
delivered of my smoldering senses' womb,
and with more pain than freedom surely born;

abandoned to the world, in which so lost,
so battered and transformed you wandered free
that only in the place you were conceived
would you by your own blood ever be known:

for since you steal the labyrinth from Crete,
from Dedalus his grandly soaring thoughts,
from sea the fury, from the abyss its fire,

if that exquisite asp won't take you in,
depart the earth, go entertain the winds,
and thus to your true home you shall retire.