To Boscán

Boscán, you are now revenged upon my play Of past severe unkindness, who reproved The tenderness of that soft heart which loved With such excessive warmth; now, not a day Passes, but for the things I used to say With so much rudeness, I myself chastise; Still, times there are when I at heart despise, And blush for the abasement I betray. Know that, full grown, and armed against desire, With my eyes open I have vailed my plume To the blind boy you know,—but soft, my lute, Never, oh never did man's heart consume In so divine and beautiful a fire; If you her name solicit, I am mute.