Quid fles? en, nitidos turbat tibi fletus ocellos!
quid fles, o lacrimis Ursa decora tuis?
forte quod adversus te acciverit ira Camenas,
aut mihi quod tu sis non adamata putes?
crede mihi, mea lux, tantum te diligo, quantum
non magis ex animo quisquis amare queat!
tu quoque me redamas; dubium est quis vincat amore:
alter utram vincit, vincitur alter utra.
cur igitur credis vitio qui ductus iniquo
inter nos rixam dissidiumque cupit?
iuro per has lacrimas et crura simillima lacti,
perque nates mollis et femur, Ursa, tuum,
quod nunquam nisi quae te laudent carmina feci:
sic sit versiculis gratia multa meis!
ah, pereat, quaeso, tibi qui mendacia dixit!
ah, pereat falsum qui tibi cunque refert!
terge tuos fletus, sine te dissabier, Ursa;
parce mihi: luctu torqueor ipse tuo.
tandem siste tui lacrimas curaque salutem:
namque ego, te domina sospite, sospes ero.
(Antonio Beccadelli, Hermaphroditus 2.9)

Why are you crying? Look, weeping has clouded your shining eyes.
Why are you crying, Ursa, beautiful in your tears?
Perhaps because you think that my anger has summoned the Muses against you,
or that you are not loved by me?
Believe me, my light, I cherish you so much
that no one can love more from the heart.
And you love me back. It’s uncertain which of us surpasses the other in love:
each surpasses the other; each is surpassed by the other.
Why then do you believe someone who is led by resentful vice
and wishes to sow quarrels and disagreements between us?
I swear by these tears and your milk-white thighs
by your soft bottom and your pussy, Ursa,
that I have never made poems except ones that praise you,
—let that be the great grace of my verse.
Ah, may he perish, I pray, who told these lies to you.
Ah, may he perish, whoever brings you false report.
Wipe away your tears and let yourself be smothered in kisses, Ursa.
Spare me: I am tortured by your grief.
Stop your tears and take care for your health.
For if you, my mistress, are well, then shall I be well.
(tr. Holt Parker)