As over them malignant storm clouds flew,
Your poet's days were but disgust, despair;
By all the furies harried, he nowhere
Could find release nor any rest he knew.
Once in Diana's shrine Orestes, too,
Had eased his weary soul from all its care;
So I from my love's shrine had hoped to bear
Away a heart and mind appeased by you.
Such fleeting dreams were quick to disappear.
No sooner on my eyes had flashed the light
Of every hope than blacker was the night.
Since then my heart has been both dark and drear;
How could the verses sprung from it be bright!
Behold how weak and faded they appear!
