A child in a bush
Was holding his limed twigs carefully
In order to catch birds
And imprison them in a cage,

When he saw, just by chance,
Winged Love on a tree,
Who was flying through the branches of the wood
To one greensward or another.

The child, who did not recognise
This bird, was so full of joy
That to catch so fine a prey 
He set all his traps on the tree.

But when he saw that he could not,
However many limed twigs he set1, 
Surprise this cunning bird
Who kept flying around and disappointing him,

He gave up angrily
And throwing away his glue in anger
Found himself facing an old dame
Who was mixed up in fortune-telling.

He swore the truth of his story
And on the top of a bush showed her
The bird he'd had the trouble with
Who was still doing nothing but play around.

The old lady, shaking her hair
Which was already greying with age,
Said to him: "stop, my child, stop;
You don't want to die so soon,

By catching that proud beast.
That bird is Love, who flies about
Bewildering men always
And never doing anything but harm.

O how lucky you will be
If you escape him all your life
And if you never wish
To play the part of a lover!

But I very much fear that the very moment 
You have reached the age of manhood,
This inconstant bird of bad luck,
Which now flies away from you among these trees,

Will surprise you unthinking
Like a young and tender victim,
And trampling your head under his feet
Will teach you just what it is to love!"