These verses, those for your consoling grace,
For your large eyes, where sweet sleep thrives or ends,
For your pure soul, all good, to you I send;
These verses hide my most distressful face.
There's but, alas, one nightmare, horrid lies,
So ceaseless, furious, jealous, mad a dream;
Into a train of wolves it multiplies,
And o'er my bloodied fate it hangs and screams!
I suffer, how I suffer horribly!
To me, first man's first groan from Eden chas'd,
Is nothing but bucolic sophistry!
And worries you might not have yet effac'd
Like swallows in the postnoon sky will play,
In warm September, Dear, in finest day.