LXV

Is love a pleasure or a pain in mask,
The more to lure us on to final woe,
By that which only is a treacherous show?--
I often of my doubting reason ask.
For when beneath my Lady's smile I bask,
I am a very fool who only know
That life is sweeter than the tender glow
Which follows conscience at a holy task.
But when she frowns--Oh! strange, unfrequent ill,
That chastens so the frailty of my deeds!--
A thousand discords sow their angry seeds
In the fair garden of my life, until
I taunt my silly heart and feeble will,
That stray from home to gather thorns and weeds.