He who once gave unto thee Most of all he did possess, Unto thee now, shepherdess, Sends what remnant there may be; Even this poor paper where Clearly written he hath shown The faith that from thee hath gone, What remains with him, despair. But perchance it doth avail Little that I tell thee this, If my faith bring me no bliss, And my woe to please thee fail; Think not that I seek to mourn, To complain that thou dost leave me; 'Tis too late that I should grieve me For my early love forlorn. Time was when thou fain wouldst hear All my tale of misery; If a tear were in my eye, Thou therewith wouldst shed a tear: Then Mireno was in truth He on whom thine eyes were set, Changed thou art and dost forget, All the joyous time of youth! Did that error but endure, Tempered were my bitter sadness; Fancied joy brings greater gladness Than a loss well known and sure. But 'twas thou that didst ordain My misfortune and distress, Making by thy fickleness False my bliss and sure my pain. From thy words so full of lies And my ears that, weak, believed, Fancied joys have I received, And undoubted miseries. Seeming pleasures once me crowned With the buoyancy of youth, But the evils in their truth To my sorrow do redound. Hence I judge and know full well, And it cannot be denied, That its glory and its pride Love hath at the gates of hell; Whoso doth not set his gaze Upon Love, from joy to pain By oblivion and disdain Is brought in a moment's space. With such swiftness thou hast wrought This mysterious transformation, That already desperation And not gain becomes my lot; For methinks 'twas yesterday Thou didst love me, or didst feign Love at least, for this is plain, What I must believe to-day. Still thy pleasing voice I hear Uttering sweet and witty things, Still thy loving reasonings Are resounding in my ear; But these memories at last, Though they please, yet torture more, Since away the breezes bore Words and works adown the blast.