XLIX

Erewhile I lived in shows and hollow masks,
I played with falsehood which I counted truth,
I spent the freshness of my lusty youth
In giant labors over paltry tasks.
If conscience turns upon my life and asks
From the wan spectre, with a look of ruth,
'Where are thy treasures?' I but point, in sooth,
To withered wreaths, stale feasts, and empty flasks.
But most it stings me, offering things like these,
As the best relics of my sorry part,
In fair exchange, upon love's open mart,
For youth like thine; though on my bended knees,
In abject shame, the gentle censor sees
My jaded body and my bankrupt heart.