Where are you roaming, sweet, where are you now,

My pleasure nymph forever taunting truth?

What bounties reaped of sinful seeds so sown—

That field oft plowed but bearing little fruit?

The winds of time, be they yet cruel or kind,

And are you still held prisoner by your glass,

Enumerating sad each furrowed line

And guillotining swift each pallid tress?

I mourn for you, though not for loss thereof,

And I am certain you cry not for me

For what to move a heart betrothed to lust,

In love with self, and ever so to be?

One heart was n’er enough to sate your needs,

But love to many, often sadness breeds.