cupid, that little God,
knows nothing of archery
if he pierces mortals,
it is with the arrows of his glances, and not darts,
for the arms of Mars do not deign to obey a child God.
you, proud god, hasten my victories.
your martial triumph awaits you.
(he tries to draw the bow, but cannot)
how stubborn,
how difficult
this bow is!
that cold bosom
shall be haughty and severe
for me