What great reins of things 
mighty Nature directs; by which laws 
she preserves with foresight the boundless globe
and tightly binds all things
with an unyielding bond, it seems good 
to set forth in eloquent song on pliant strings.
Though Phoenician lions may wear
fine chains and take food
given by hand and fear their harsh master,
being accustomed to suffer his blows,
if gore should stain their savage mouths,
their formerly dormant spirits return 
and they remember themselves with a deep roar;
they loosen their bonds and free their necks,
and their tamer, torn by bloodstained teeth,
is the first to slake their furious wrath.
The chattering bird that sings on high branches
is shut up in the hollow of a birdcage;
she may have cups smeared with honey
and with sweet attention be served lavish meals 
by the playful care of men, 
yet if hopping about in her narrow cage
she should see the pleasant shadows of the woods,
she scatters her food and treads it underfoot;
in her sadness she yearns only for the forest,
and murmurs of the forest with her sweet voice.
Once pushed down with great force
a shoot bends its top to the ground;
if the bending hand releases it,
it looks upon the sky with its crown upright.
Phoebus falls into the western waves, 
but by a hidden path once again
turns his chariot towards its accustomed rising.
All things seek again their own return
and each one rejoices in its returning:
nor does there remain to any a given order
save that which joins beginning to end
and makes an enduring cycle of itself.