Poems by Jan Kochanowski
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Come, Heraclitus and Simonides,
If I had ever thought to write in praise
So, thou hast scorned me, my delight and heir;
Thou hast constrained mine eyes, unholy Death,
Thou shouldst be purchased, Wisdom, for much gold
Just as a little olive offshoot grows
Dear little Slavic Sappho, we had thought,
Sad trinkets of my little daughter, dresses
Thou hast made all the house an empty thing,
My dear delight, my Ursula, and where
"Virtue is but a trifle!" Brutus said
I think no father under any sky
Ursula, winsome child, I would that I
Where are those gates through which so long ago
Long through the night hours sorrow was my guest
Golden-locked Erato, and thou, sweet lute,
Misfortune hath constrained me
God hath laid his hand on me:
We are thy thankless children, gracious Lord.