From each, abundant good a portion takes,
And for each want a compensation makes;
Then tell me not of years—Love, power divine,
Takes, as he wills, from hers, and gives to mine.
And she, in truth, was lovely—Time had strown
No snows on her, though he so long had flown; 260
The purest damask blossom’d in her cheek;
The eyes said all that eyes are wont to speak;
Her pleasing person she with care adorn’d,
Nor arts that stay the flying graces scorn’d;