Che talor cresce una beltà un bel manto. - Ludovico Ariosto

Ingiustissimo Amor, perché sì raro
Corrispondenti fai nostri desiri?
Onde, perfido, avvien che t'è sì caro
Il discorde voler ch’in duo cor miri?

For rarely man escapes his destiny.

A virgin is like a rose: while she remains on the thorn whence she sprang, alone and safe in a lovely garden, no flock, no shepherd approaches. The gentle breeze and the dewy dawn, water, and earth pay her homage; amorous youths and loving maidens like to deck their brows with her, and their breasts. / But no sooner is she plucked from her mother-stalk, severed from her green stem, than she loses all, all the favour, grace, and beauty wherewith heaven and men endowed her.