Chapter XXXI

Was it with joy or with time’s false relief,
That I perceived the presence of thy being,
Clothed all in charm, once more alone, and seeing,
Beheld in thee both happiness and grief?
For surely, Cupid, thou art but a thief,
To steal from man his heart, and, with it fleeing,
Reduce him to love’s penury, agreeing
The while to soon replace his lost belief.
Loved one, thou bringest with thee pleasant hours,
That, dying all too soon, leave me in pain
For many a day and weary week betimes;
Refusing strangely love’s perpetual flowers;
Without the which my love for thee seems vain,
Save for th’ alleviation of my rhymes.