No More Learning

Lo, I have followed you hither to Rome, and I'd like to do something

Here in this far away land pleasing to such an old friend.

Every traveller I've ever known has complained of poor treatment:

He whom I recommend treatment delicious receives.

You've now regarded with awe all the structures which lie here in ruins,

Cultivated your eye, sensing each hallowed space.

How you've revered the formative will of those ancient artists!

In their own ateliers often I 've visited them.

As for their works, why, I formed those myself--now this time I'm boasting

Not. Oh come now, admit what I am saying is true.

Where are your own creations, your service to me having slackened?

Where is invention's glow now? Where is the color all gone?

Friend, do you hope you can create again? --The school of the Ancients

Yet remains open. Its gates, years have not closed them to you.

I am eternally young, and as teacher I still love the young ones.

Wisdom that comes with old age pleases me not.
Listen here:

Wasn't antiquity young when those fortunate Ancients were living?

Happy then be your life, too: in it antiquity lives.

Where will you find a fit theme for your song? --It is I must provide it.

As for a style truly grand, love can alone give you that. "

All of these claims that sophist asserted. Could I contradict him?

I am wont to obey, when my commander decrees.

Treacherous now he is keeping his word: giving me themes for my poems

While he is stealing my time, potency, presence of mind.

Gazing into her eyes, holding hands, giving kisses, exchanging

Syllables sweet and those words lovers alone understand,

Murmuring our conversations we stutter in sweet oratory.

Hymns of such sort pass away, wanting prosodical tact.

Goddess of morning, Aurora, as friend of my muse I once knew you.

Has the unprincipled god, Cupid, seduced you now too?

So that these mornings you come as his sweetheart, awakening me at

His festive altar again, where I must celebrate him?

Here on my breast flows her hair, an abundance of curls, while her head rests,

Pressing my arm as it's bent, so as to pillow her neck.

What a delicious condition, if only these few tranquil moments

Could in my memory fix firmly that image of joy

When the night rocked us to sleep--but in slumber she's moving away now,

From my side turns, as she goes leaving her hand in my hand.