well (and I have also discovered)

What, beneath tapestries rich, gilded boudoirs conceal.

One may if one wishes call him a blind, wanton boy--but I know you,

Clever Cupid, too well! O, incorruptible god!

We were by no means inveigled to enter facades so majestic;

Somber cortile we passed, balcony high and gallant,

Hastening onward until an humble but exquisite portal

Offered a refuge to both, ardent seeker and guide.

Here he provides me with ev'rything, sees that I get what I call for;

Each day that passes he spreads freshly plucked roses for me.

--Isn't that heaven on earth? Say, beautiful Lady Borghese,

What would you give to me more? --You, Nipotina, what yours?

Banquets and game tables, operas, balls, promenades down the Corso?

These but deprive my sweet boy of his most opportune times.

Finery, haughtiness do not entice me. Does one not lift a

Gown of the finest brocade just as one lifts common wool?

If she's to press in comfort a lover against that soft bosom,

Doesn't he want her to be free from all brooches and chains?

Must not the jewelry, and then the lace and the bustles and whalebone

All of it come off entire, if he's to learn how she feels?

I encounter no troubles like those. Simple dress of rough homespun,

At but a lover's mere touch, tumbles in folds to the floor.

Quickly he carries the girl as she's clad in chemise of coarse linen--

Just as a nursemaid might, playfully up to her bed.

Drapings of satin are absent; the mattress is quite unembroidered.

Large is this room where the bed offers its comfort for two.

Jupiter's welcome to more from his Juno if he can get it;

Let any mortal find rest, softer, wherever he can.

We are content with Cupid's delights, authentic and naked--

And with the exquisite creak /crack of the bed as it rocks.

IV

Ask whomever you will but you'll never find out where I'm lodging,

High society's lords, ladies so groomed and refined.

"Tell me, was Werther authentic? Did all of that happen in real life?"

"Lotte, oh where did she live, Werther's only true love?"

How many times have I cursed those frivolous pages that broadcast

Out among all mankind passions I felt in my youth!

Were he my brother, why then I 'd have murdered poor Werther.

Yet his despondent ghost couldn't have sought worse reveng