XXV. TO BOSCÁN.
Boscán, you are now revenged upon my play
Of past severe unkindness, who reproved
The tenderness of that soft heart which loved
With such excessive warmth; now, not a day
Passes, but for the things I used to say
With so much rudeness, I myself chastise;
Still, times there are when I at heart despise,
And blush for the abasement I betray.
Know that, full grown, and armed against desire,
With my eyes open I have vailed my plume
To the blind boy you know,—but soft, my lute,
Never, oh never did man's heart consume
In so divine and beautiful a fire;
If you her name solicit, I am mute.