You shun me like a fawn that’s seeking
through trackless hills her mother peeking,
      ill with fear of the woods and breeze;

When pliant leaves the spring winds rustle
or lizards through the bushes bustle
      she trembles in her heart and knees.

But not I like the tiger savage
or wild lion seek to ravage:
      so come, you’re ripe a man to please.

[translation by Peter Saint-Andre]