My Thracian filly,
Why do you stare at me askance?
Casting such a scornful glance,
When I only seek to fix the bridle and the bit?
And thereby win with winged words,
Whom auspicious gods above gave chance.
That I may do so is no such crime,
Merely only now give way,
To him who rolls the dice now cast,
And wishing only a wicked kiss.
Be tender, be soft – hold not fast,
For here, forlorn, I do but stand,
And extend but only a weakening hand.
So now with steady hands,
Let me unhook the belt which holds you so chaste,
And if not, return to wretched lands,
Where this bittersweet memory may be erased.