Ad amicam, ut ad rura sua veniat

Sulmo, Peligny's third part, me contains,
A small, but wholesome soil with wat'ry veins.
Although the sun to rive the earth incline,
And the Icarian froward dog-star shine,
Pelignian fields with liquid rivers flow,
And on the soft ground fertile green grass grow.
With corn the earth abounds, with vines much more,
And some few pastures Pallas' olives bore.
And by the rising herbs, where clear springs slide,
A grassy turf the moistened earth doth hide.
But absent is my fire: lies I'll tell none,
My heat is here, what moves my heat is gone.
Pollux and Castor might I stand betwixt,
In heaven without thee would I not be fixed.
Upon the cold earth pensive let them lay
That mean to travel some long irksome way,
Or else will maidens, young men's mates, to go
If they determine to persever so.
Then on the rough Alps should I tread aloft,
My hard way with my mistress would seem soft.
With her I durst the Lybian Syrtes break through,
And raging seas in boist'rous south winds plough.
No barking dogs that Scylla's entrails bear,
Nor thy gulfs, crook'd Malea, would I fear;
No flowing waves with drowned ships forth-poured
By cloyed Charybdis, and again devoured.
But if stern Neptune's windy power prevail,
And waters' force force helping gods to fail,
With thy white arms upon my shoulders seize,
So sweet a burden I will bear with ease.
The youth oft swimming to his Hero kind,
Had then swum over, but the way was blind.
But without thee, although vine-planted ground
Contains me, though the streams in fields surround,
Though hinds in brooks the running waters bring,
And cool gales shake the tall trees' leafy spring,
Healthful Peligny I esteem nought worth,
Nor do I like the country of my birth.
Scythia, Cilicia, Britain are as good,
And rocks dyed crimson with Prometheus' blood.
Elms love the vines, the vines with elms abide,
Why doth my mistress from me oft divide?
Thou swarest division should not 'twixt us rise,
By me, and by my stars, thy radiant eyes.
Maids' words more vain and light than falling leaves,
Which, as it seems, hence wind and sea bereaves.
If any godly care of me thou hast,
Add deeds unto thy promises at last,
And with swift nags drawing thy little coach
(Their reins let loose), right soon my house approach.
But when she comes, you swelling mounts sink down,
And falling valleys be the smooth ways' crown.