Wine, No. 43

Sweet native soil, farewell! dear country of my birth! Fair chamber of the loves! glad home of joy and mirth! To-morrow or to-day I leave you, o'er the earth To wander struck with love, to pine with rage and dearth In exile!

Farewell, sweet land, and ye, my comrades dear, adieu! To whom with kindly heart I have been ever true; The studies that we loved I may no more pursue; Weep then for me, who part as though I died to you, Love-laden!

As many as the flowers that Hybla's valley cover, As many as the leaves that on Dodona hover, As many as the fish that sail the wide seas over, So many are the pangs that pain a faithful lover, For ever!

With the new fire of love my wounded bosom burns; Love knows not any ruth, all tender pity spurns; How true the proverb speaks that saith to him that yearns, "Where love is there is pain; thy pleasure love returns With anguish!"

Ah, sorrow! ah, how sad the wages of our bliss! In lovers' hearts the flame's too hot for happiness; For Venus still doth send new sighs and new distress When once the enamoured soul is taken with excess Of sweetness!