LXXV. THE PRICE OF TREACHERY
There's none, my Lesbia, can say
That she was ever loved so well
As you have been from day to day
By me, and truly I can tell
Not so much faith was manifest
In any compact ever signed
As in the love that fills my breast:
Yet to this pass you bring my mind
With thinking of your treachery
That in devotion it is lost,
Though bedded in uncertainty,
A wandering vessel, tempest-tossed.
I neither like you now, though you
Should faultless be - Oh! gods above!
Do as you please - nor, it is true,
Can I desist from hopeless love!