I am of no sound mind or body; the angel that is joy has forsaken me, and I have seen all my vigor gone since. My sorrowful heart has rendered me diseased, and I am now a lame man without life and festering.
The jewel of the world, the sole one in it; she is grace-incarnate, and speaks only to grace. She is a finely-laced glove which fits only the right hand. She is light, for when it is dark I do not fret!
Miserable Nightingale I fret alongside you! I fret and wail for I am of an under-world; how could her divine luster reach me? Before abyss and upon a gloomy stake I am held and fettered with the regrettable truth of life. Lowly men are not worth the dirt they are. I am beyond redemption, but I have not ceased looking for it.
Every night under heaven was agent to the liveliest of pleasures, and charm was seldom unfound. To my demise! my ruby and her crown became the slaves of an unearthly passion, ministers of metaphysics! I can but only imagine how gracefully they tip-toed around the altar, and with what affection, and youthful dissidence.
Alas, they are like beasts who ravish to no end, and commit their back to its handsome other till the drop of dew. They pluck the strings of love in a craze, and are never in concert. They are the vengeful harpists who have come for my grace.
They have come to take my treasure, though a speckle of theirs.
Take my comfort, and bring the foul breed of jealousy into my life! Take my fancy, and abuse her as she upholds her gentle countenance. For while her airiness has slayed the two villains sorrow and doubt, it trembles under their abrasive and uncaring palm. They attain gratification with crude servility, and are ungrateful for it.
If ever a livelier compact was made, or a union more consummate than I witnessed between my bride’s violin and her sawing bow, than after tonight I die in vain. My rare reward—the pauper says!—is how they are kings of my glorious bounty, but know it not.
I wither away a strange man to love. I leave my effects to inferno.