Are you thus without your wits, does my love not bring you pause?

Tell, am I as cheap to you as Illyrian snowmelt-thaws?

And does he seem so much to you, yes him, whoever the hell he be,

That you choose the winds at-large, to go abroad without me?

Can’t you hear the thrashing roar that comes from the wet and wild ocean,

Its force? And could you even steal a wink amid such ceaseless motion?

Would you endure when hoar-frost sets, with feet you rub and soften,

And bear the snows, Cynthia? You know we don’t get them often.

Oh how I wish this winter short had double the days as these!

So sailors would still dilly-dally beneath delaying Pleiades;

That you would not embark from here, that frozen would stick the sailors’ knots,

That ill-willed winds would not subdue my prayers and loving thoughts!

But, may I see no stormy winds under star-groups so mean-hearted,

When waves will off abscond with you, your vessel’s been departed,

Though it entails that I remain upon these shores with you so missed

To call you cruel, and cruel again! with hands clenched to a fist.

No matter my reaction, though, (deserter!) of me I say you’re still deserving,

So may the nymphs attend to you, and keep your ship from swerving.

As you pass the cliffs of Epirus, may oars become your lucky guides,

And may its port receive you with equilibrating tides!

Since none but you, my love, can break me, no, none will I adore

So much to keep me still from singing love-songs at your door.

Nor will one fain prevent me from putting it to the seamen starboard:

“Tell me, at what port is my sweet darling harbored?”

I will say, “Perhaps the bay of Thessaly, she’s safely stationed and content,”

Or if remoter still, I say, “that one’s my future, past, and present.”