Wine, No. 40

A mortal anguish How often woundeth me; Grieving I languish, Weighed down with misery;

Hearing the mournful Tale of thy fault and fall Blown by Fame's scornful Trump to the ears of all!

Envious rumour Late or soon will slay thee: Love with less humour, Lest thy love betray thee.

Whate'er thou dost, do secretly, Far from Fame's curiosity; Love in the dark delights to be, His sports are wiles and witchery, With laugh of lovers greeting.

Thou wert not slighted, Stained in thine honour, when We were united, Lovers unknown to men; But when thy passion Grew like thy bosom cold, None had compassion, Then was thy story told.

Fame, who rejoiceth New amours to utter, Now thy shame voiceth, Wide her pinions flutter.

The palace home of modesty Is made a haunt for harlotry; The virgin lily you may see Defiled by fingers lewd and free, With vile embraces meeting.

I mourn the tender Flower of the youth of thee, Brighter in splendour Than evening's star can be. Pure were thy kisses, Dove-like thy smile; As the snake hisses Now is thy guile.

Lovers who pray thee From thy door are scattered; Lovers who pay thee In thy bed are flattered.

Thou bidst them from thy presence flee From whom thou canst not take thy fee; Blind, halt, and lame thy suitors be; Illustrious men with subtlety And poisonous honey cheating.