Sur le refrain d’un eccho que je fis en dormant

Philandre, sur le point de payer ses regrets,

De joye s’addressant à l’ombre des Forests,

Secretaires, dit il, des peines de Philandre,

Qui l’avez veu en feu, qui le voyez en cendre,

Est il rien de si beau qu’ Amaranthe et son nom?

Non, dirent les Rochers, et les boiz dirent, Non.

To an Echo Tune, Lines Which I Composed in a Dream

Philander, as he approached his sufferings’ end, joyfully addressed

himself to the shade of the forest. ‘Confidants,’ he said,

‘of the sufferings of Philander, whom you have seen on fire, whom

you see as ash, is there anything so beautiful as Amarantha and

her name?’ ‘No,’ the cliffs said, and the woods said ‘no’.

Air dans ma Pathologie

Tu te trompes, Philis, lors que ta main d’Albastre

M’attrappe dans ton sein.

En dépit de tes coups, mon amour idolatre

Arrive à son dessein.

Serre et gesne ces doigts, defends toij et te vange,

Je ne perds rien au change;

Je ne sçaij qui des deux chatouïlle plus mes sens,

Ou mon crime, ou tes chastimens.

Air from My Pathodia

You are mistaken, Phillis, when your Alabaster hand ensnares me in your breast. Despite your blows, my idolatrous love reaches its goal. Squeeze and hinder these fingers, defend and revenge yourself, I will lose nothing from the change; I cannot say which of the two excites my senses the more: my crime or your chastisements.