Even for woman, I am thus vain nor
sprightly bud or rose hath feigned such
affection towards sun or rain
as my heart towards its suffering.
Night and day hath shed its gentle robes
little doeth the evening know how
sudden, quickly my sorrow grows
to cloud the rising moon.
What ray throws hallowed light wherein
shadows shrink and curl from sight, whose
sallow face, at once, so gay and bright
when lovers come to call?
Here am I but ghost of beauty's maiden
decked with flowers, shining, jewel-laden;
my grief and sadness overtaken by
my need for love.
They flee from me that sometime
should not seek. Some might sorely pine
for solace, bread or richer wine but
not in arms that keep you.
All beware the trickery of passion, let
Venus be the thoughtful lesson; gluttony
she feeds upon her witless prey till
naught but whitened bone remain.
