While season served to sow, my plough stood still;
My graffs unset, when other's trees did bloom.
I spent the Spring in sloth, and slept my fill;
But never thought of Winter's cold to come;
Till Spring was past, the Summer well nigh gone;
When I awaked, and saw my harvest none.
XXIX.
Now Love sits all alone, in black attire;
His broken bow, and arrows lying by him;
His fire extinct, that whilom fed Desire;
Himself the scorn of lovers that pass by him:
Who, this day, freely may disport and play;
For it is Philoparthen's Holiday.
XXX.
Otia si tollas periere Cupidinis arcus.
Nay, think not Love! with all thy cunning slight,
To catch me once again! Thou com'st too late!
Stern Industry puts Idleness to flight:
And Time hath changèd both my name and state.
Then seek elsewhere for mates, that may befriend thee!
For I am busy, and cannot attend thee!
XXXI.
Loose Idleness! the Nurse of fond Desire!
Root of all ills that do our youth betide;
That, whilom, didst, through love, my wrack conspire:
I banish thee! and rather wish t'abide
All austere hardness, and continual pain;
Than to revoke thee! or to love again!
XXXII.