LXXVI.
There was one more, but, ’tis no matter now,
One who’s forgot, I too will learn that lore;
Nor others rest, but wistfully, I plough
Memory’s hard furrows, pregnant now no more;
For now Love’s turned from my too sullen soul,
He will no longer fling the rainbow veil,
Nor glance his mirror o’er defects, to enroll
Me, midst the captives of his courted jail:
I’ll draw fresh sustenance from the past for joy,
And scorn love’s gyves, his fears, his jealous frowns;
Take up the sweets, and mock the archer boy,
Who fools each votary with delusive crowns:
Yet could I buy his pleasures with his woes,
I’d choose them both, the archer God well knows.