Enough, my muse, thy wearied wing no more Must to the seat of Jove triumphant soar. Chilled by my nation's cold neglect, thy fires Glow bold no more,… - Luís de Camões

<small>To this old song:
Partridge lost his quill,
there's no harm won't befall him.</small> Partridge, whose winged fancy
aspired to a high estate,
lost a feather in his flight
and won the pen of despondency.
He finds in the breeze no buoyancy
for his pennants to haul him:
there's no harm won't befall him. He wished to soar to a high tower
but found his plumage clipped,
and, observing himself plucked, pines away in despair.
If he cries out for succor,
stoke the fire to forestall him:
there's no harm won't befall him.

Nem no campo flores,
Nem no céu estrelas
Me parecem belas
Como os meus amores.

Just like Love is yonder rose.