When phantoms bred of earth spring up between
Two loving hearts, who grew to their endearing,
When all their pushing tendrils yet were green:
No time-struck ruin is so sad to see
As youth’s disease: than thus, O Love, to be,
’Twere better for thy honour not to have been.
Had I not seen the servitude of folly,
The mínute-measuring of days and nights,
With superstition preaching melancholy
And pleasure counterfeiting her own rights;