Why should I fret the passion of this string,
Singing to ears that fain would have me mute--
I who have never found the trick to suit
The age's craving for a novel thing?
Fame passes by me, and in vain I ring
The Delphic lyre or sound the Attic flute,
Or tinkle shyly this Italian lute;
Men have no patience with the songs I sing.
Scorned of all others, Sweet, to thee I turn,
With shameful waters mantling in my eyes,
With lips that tremble and with cheeks that burn.
Thou art too gentle wholly to despise
My heart-felt homage, or with spleen to spurn
That which, alas, I know thou canst not prize.