Viens, Aurore,
Je t'implore,
Je suis gai quand je te voi.
La bergère
Qui m'est chère,
Est vermeille comme toi.
De rosée,
Arrosée,
La rose a moins de fraicheur,
Une hermine
Est moins fine;
Le lait a moins de blancheur.
Pour entendre
Sa voix tendre,
On déserte le hameau:
Et Tityre
Qui soupire,
Fait taire son chalumeau.
Elle est blonde,
Sans seconde;
Elle a la taille à la main
Sa prunelle
Etincelle
Comme l'astre du matin.
D'ambroisie
Bien choisie,
Hébé la nourrit à part;
Et sa bouche,
Quand je touche,
Me parfume de nectar.
Come, Aurore,
I implore,
I am glad when thou art breaking.
That sweet cheek
Whose smiles I seek,
Is vermillion like thy waking.
Bathed and fair
With dew and air,
Yon fresh rose has less of brightness;
And less fine
Is the ermine,
While the milk has less of whiteness.
To rejoice
In her soft voice,
Leave they yonder hamlet lonely;
And the swain
Neglects his strain,
Listening to her music only.
She is fair
Beyond compare,—
You may span her waist so slender;
Like a star
Her soft eyes are,
Opening in its morning splendour.
When none heed her,
Hebe feeds her
With such balm as heaven consumeth;
And her mouth,
Like the sweet south,
With one fragrant touch perfumeth.