I`m the passionate shepherd to his love I will write, while sitting bucolic in locus amoenus. If all the world and love were young, and truth in every shepherd's tongue, these pretty pleas might me move to live with thee and be thy love. Time drives the flocks from field to fold when rivers rage and rocks grow cold, and Philomel becometh dumb; The rest complains of cares to come.
Location
In erotic access to my Muse