When we are in the temple [church]
Kneeling, we will look like
The devout, the very image
Of those who , to worship God,
Humbly bow towards the
Most holy part of the church.

But when we are in bed
Entwined, we will look like
The lascivious, the very image
Of lovers who freely
And friskily perform
A hundred little acts of love under the sheets.

So why, when I want
To bite your lovely hair
Or to kiss your beloved lips
Or to brush against your lovely breast,
Do you pretend to be a little nun
In an enclosed convent?

For whom are you keeping your eyes
And your delicious breast,
Your cheeks, your lovely lips?
Do you want Pluto to kiss them
Down below, after Charon1
Has taken you into his little boat?

After your eventual death,
Down there you'll be spindly, with nothing
But a deathly-pale mouth;
And when I'm dead and see you
In the Shades I will not recognise
That you were formerly my beloved.

Your head will no longer have skin on it
Your face -- oh so beautiful ! --
Won't have its veins and arteries;
You will just have teeth left,
Like those you see inside
The skulls in cemeteries.

So, while you are alive,
Change your mind, my mistress,
And don't be sparing with your lips;
All at once you will be dead,
And then you will repent
Of having been shy with me.

I'm dying, so kiss me.
Oh Mistress, come near me.
Like a quaking fawn you flee.
At least allow my hand to rest,
All a-tremble, on your breast,
Or farther down still, if may be.