Yes, lovely nymph, thou art my prize; I boast the conquest of thy heart, Though nor the tongue, nor speaking eyes, Have yet revealed the latent smart.
Thy wit and sense assure my fate, In them my love's success I see; Nor can he be unfortunate Who dares avow his flame for thee.
Yet sometimes hast thou frowned, alas! And given my hopes a cruel shock; Then did thy soul seem formed of brass, Thy snowy bosom of the rock.
But in the midst of thy disdain, Thy sharp reproaches, cold delays, Hope from behind to ease my pain, The border of her robe displays.
Ah, lovely maid! in equal scale Weigh well thy shepherd's truth and love, Which ne'er but with his breath can fail, Which neither frowns nor smiles can move.
If love, as shepherds wont to say, Be gentleness and courtesy, So courteous is Olalia, My passion will rewarded be.
And if obsequious duty paid, The grateful heart can never move, Mine sure, my fair, may well persuade A due return and claim thy love.
For, to seem pleasing in thy sight, I dress myself with studious care, And, in my best apparel dight, My Sunday clothes on Monday wear.
And shepherds say I'm not to blame, For cleanly dress and spruce attire Preserve alive love's wanton flame And gently fan the dying fire.
To please my fair, in mazy ring I join the dance, and sportive play; And oft beneath thy window sing, When first the cock proclaims the day.
With rapture on each charm I dwell, And daily spread thy beauty's fame; And still my tongue thy praise shall tell, Though envy swell, or malice blame.
Teresa of the Berrocal, When once I praised you, said in spite, Your mistress you an angel call, But a mere ape is your delight.
Thanks to the bugle's artful glare, And all the graces counterfeit; Thanks to the false and curléd hair, Which wary Love himself might cheat.
I swore 'twas false, and said she lied; At that her anger fiercely rose; I boxed the clown that took her side, And how I boxed my fairest knows.
I court thee not, Olalia, To gratify a loose desire; My love is chaste, without alloy Of wanton wish or lustful fire.
The church hath silken cords, that tie Consenting hearts in mutual bands: If thou, my fair, its yoke will try, Thy swain its ready captive stands.
If not, by all the saints I swear On these bleak mountains still to dwell, Nor ever quit my toilsome care, But for the cloister and the cell.