Fair Atalanta made her suitor’s run

a footrace, betting life against her hand.

Hippomenes had apples like the sun,

a gift from Venus, and used them as planned.

 

The apples, o’er the race, the maiden chose.

Forgetting Venus, both were punished. Yet,

my mistress’ golden apples rival those

that foolish Atalanta stopped to get.

 

And o’er this fruit my mistress’ beauty shines

with courtesy and courtly grace most rare.

For favors giv’n, she proper tribute finds

(and would quickly correct me if I err).

 

Though apples Atalanta’s folly showed,

with them my mistress’ wisdom is bestowed.