Translation: Thomas Arents (1652-1701): On My Anna

(Original text / oorspronkelijke tekst)

Each time when kiss my Ann I may,
It is a sweet divine I savour.
The utmost beauties of the sun by day
Please less than those two eyes I favour.

When Phoebus, at Aurora’s stir,
Her with his company composes,
It’s Anna’s lap I much prefer,
While from her cheeks I pick some roses. 

I envy not Jove’s spiteful wife, 
Nor Mars’s mistress Venus’ essence;
May Bacchus stay in Ceres’ life,
I like to keep my Anna’s presence.

Her looks to me are heavenly,
Her eyes to me are shining sunbeams;
Ah! if their light is lost to me,
I wither in a night of bad dreams.

Red coral is without all shine
Compared to her sweet-scented blushes;
My soul hangs in the golden line
Of her curled locks and hairdo’s rushes.

She’s always prone to my love’s play,
Nor lets me down in her embraces;
How often did I like her way
Of loving me with such sweet graces!

That joy should never leave my mind,
Nor ever quit my mind’s recesses; 
My Anna, ah, how sweet, how kind
Is spending nights in your arms’ tresses!

Translation by Cornelis W. Schoneveld