Şiir 68
When to me sore opprest by bitter chance of misfortune
This thy letter thou send’st written wi’ blotting of tears,
So might I save thee flung by spuming billows of ocean,
Shipwreckt, rescuing life snatcht from the threshold of death;
Eke neither Venus the Holy to rest in slumber’s refreshment
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Grants thee her grace on couch lying deserted and lone,
Nor can the Muses avail with dulcet song of old writers
Ever delight thy mind sleepless in anxious care;
Grateful be this to my thought since thus thy friend I’m entitled,
Hence of me seekest thou gifts Muses and Venus can give:
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But that bide not unknown to thee my sorrows (O Manius!)
And lest office of host I should be holden to hate,
Learn how in Fortune’s deeps I chance myself to be drownèd,
Nor fro’ the poor rich boons furthermore prithee require.
What while first to myself the pure-white garment was given,
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Whenas my flowery years flowed in fruition of spring,
Much I disported enow, nor ’bode I a stranger to Goddess
Who with our cares is lief sweetness of bitter to mix:
Yet did a brother’s death pursuits like these to my sorrow
Bid for me cease: Oh, snatcht brother! from wretchedest me.
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