Living to thee, 'tis like a lamp that dies
And as it dies, the flame burneth more clear.
My wearied soul doth not in time that flies,
Nor in the means that absence offers, find
Its consolation 'midst its miseries.
THYRSIS.
Love that is firm and pure hath ne'er declined
Through bitter absence; rather memory
Fosters its growth by faith within the mind.
The perfect lover sees no remedy