VII

I am Love's thrall and vassal. Though I wear
Chains of linked roses, and am daily fed
On scented sweets, and with my myrtled head
Am gently led into the sunny air,
Treading on garlands; though the haughty blare
Of brazen trumpets clamors to my tread
And from my shoulders flaunts the Tyrian red,
And shouting people wonder as they stare;
I am not so deluded by the show
As not to hang my sullen, captive face
While, like a moving trophy, on I go:
And all my pomp but makes my state more base,
My pride more shameful; for full well I know
That 'tis Love's triumph, not my own, I grace.