Sparrow, the special delight of my girl, 

whom often she teases and holds on her lap 

and pokes with the tip of her finger, provoking 

counterattacks with your mordant beak, 

whenever my luminous love desires 

something or other, innocuous fun, 

a bit of escape, I suppose, from her pain, 

a moment of peace from her turbulent passion, 

I wish I could play like she does with you 

and lighten the cares of my sorrowful soul. 

It thrills me as much as the nimble girl 

in the story was thrilled by the gilded apple 

that finally uncinched her virginal gown.