Two springs we drink from, since the days we met:
one is a silver stream – a draught brings joy,
tranports me far to fields that never cloy,
where drowsed on flowers, I would time forget;
nearby – the next brings sorrow and regret:
turns fire to ice – turns to a scornful toy
a former love, whose charms now just annoy -
turns days awry, by sudden storms upset.
One lake of passion is for both their mother -
and with what bitterness we two have fought,
for our affections just to come to nought -
as when I drank from one, you drank the other;
and what a pity it would be - to never
drink from the silver spring of bliss together.