Mydzouris, little baggage, cry no more. You are my friend. If the women hurt you again, 'tis I who will answer them. Come to my arms and dry your tears.
Yes, I know you are a dreadful child, and that your mother taught you early to try out all the passions. But you are young, and that is why you can do nothing that will not be charming.
The mouth of a girl of fifteen stays pure in spite of everything. The lips of a hoary woman, although she be a virgin, are defiled; for the only disgrace is to grow old, and we are not stigmatized except by wrinkles.
Mydzouris, I like your frank eyes, your bold and shameless name, your laughing voice, your light-built body. Come home with me and you will be my aide, and when we go out together in the street, the women will say "Hail" to you again.