I that with youthful heat did verses write, Must now my woes in doleful tunes indite. My work is framed by Muses torn and rude, And my sad cheeks are with true tears bedewed: For these alone no terror could affray From being partners of my weary way. The art that was my young life’s joy and glory Becomes my solace now I’m old and sorry; Sorrow has filched my youth from me, the thief!
