Dreams soothed my tears with thoughts of you, oh love,
though pride held high my soul for little while.
Yet here lay I in shackles lest I move
to you who left me fretting and beguiled.
Ah! A fool is Eros who fools us all,
he blindly leads to death with good intent
and follow we his fleeting silv’ry gall;
but my queries seem never to relent.
And I, in jest, begin to test each heart,
to find new joys in smiles of an hour.
How frail and pitiful am I to dart
from hand to hand; love’s milk begins to sour.
Fatigued and weak with mem’ries of the past,
I shrivel, slope, subside behind a mask.