Mourn, oh Venuses and Cupids,
and as for men, whoever kind remains:
the sparrow is dead, my girl,
the sparrow, delight of my girl,
whom she loved more than her eyes themselves.
For he was as sweet as honey and knew
his mother as well as a girl knows hers,
nor did he move from her lap,
but danced around everywhere,
ever chirping to his mistress only;
he now goes on a dark journey
from which they say no man ever returns.
But curse you, dark and evil
Underworld, devouring all that’s beautiful:
such a pretty sparrow you’ve taken from me.
Oh bad deed! Oh poor sparrow!
It’s your fault that now my girl’s
eyes are swollen red with weeping.
Lugete, o Veneres Cupidinesque
et quantum est hominum uenustiorum:
passer mortuus est meae puellae,
passer, deliciae meae puellae,
quem plus illa oculis suis amabat.
nam mellitus erat suamque norat
ipsam tam bene quam puella matrem,
nec sese a gremio illius mouebat,
sed circumsiliens modo huc modo illuc
ad solam dominam usque pipiabat;
qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum
illud, unde negant redire quemquam.
at uobis male sit, malae tenebrae
Orci, quae omnia bella deuoratis
tam bellum mihi passerem abstulistis.
o factum male! o miselle passer!
tua nunc opera meae puellae
flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli.