Songbird —my sweetheart's delight—
she often plays with you, has you in her lap,
giving her index fingertip to you
teasing you to make sharp nips,
when my shining object of love
is pleased to play by some unknown dear reason
and a small comfort from pain;
I think it's so her love may then subside.
If only I could play with you as she does,
and relieve my soul's sad torments!
Passer, dēliciae meae puellae,
quīcum lūdere, quem in sinū tenēre,
cui prīmum digitum dare appetentī
et ācrīs solet incitāre morsūs,
cum dēsīderiō meō nitentī
cārum nesciŏ quid lubet iocārī
et sōlāciolum suī dolōris;
crēdō ut tum gravis acquiēscat ardor.
Tēcum lūdere sīcut ipsa possem,
et trīstīs animī levāre cūrās!