mē pŏsitō pŭdĕat dēsuescĕrĕ pangĕre plectrō

mē pŏsitō pŭdĕat dēsuescĕrĕ pangĕre plectrō

     carmĭnă, frūstrāta est Mūsa relictă sĭtū

ast rĕvŏcārĕ dĭū lătĭtantēs pectŏre causās

     jam libeat: nam nōn pungit ămārus Ămor.

Let me feel shame at growing unaccustomed to writing songs, 

my guitar pick put aside; 

the Muse frustrated, left behind in the dust.

Ah, but let it please me to recall the causes, 

long hidden in my heart,

For now bitter love doesn't prick.