I’ll put them from me while they still are fair.
And purply splendid, still undimmed their gold.
I will not suffer word of them be told
That’s pitiful or hath a grievous air,
Joy shall be on them blazoned everywhere
As on twin standards of the warrior soul.
I will not wait till Hope—that coward bird—
Does backward fly becoming Memory,
Untruths to prattle to me foolishly.
The day that first my heart shall bring me word