The passion of love is to be conquered by flight alone; it is vain to contend with a power which, though human, requires more than human strength to subdue.
sonnet.
In the dead silence of the peaceful night, When others' cares are hushed in soft repose, The sad account of my neglected woes To conscious Heaven and Chloris I recite. And when the sun, with his returning light, Forth from the east his radiant journey goes, With accents such as sorrow only knows, My griefs to tell is all my poor delight. And when bright Phœbus from his starry throne Sends rays direct upon the parched soil, Still in the mournful tale I persevere; Returning night renews my sorrow's toil; And though from morn to night I weep and moan, Nor Heaven nor Chloris my complainings hear.
Are we to take all that enamored poets sing for truth?
sonnet.
Believe me, nymph, I feel th' impending blow, And glory in the near approach of death; For when thou see'st my corse devoid of breath, My constancy and truth thou sure wilt know, Welcome to me Oblivion's shade obscure! Welcome the loss of fortune, life, and fame! But thy loved features, and thy honored name, Deep graven on my heart, shall still endure. And these, as sacred relics, will I keep Till that sad moment when to endless night My long-tormented soul shall take her flight Alas for him who on the darkened deep Floats idly, sport of the tempestuous tide, No port to shield him, and no star to guide!