Whither hath the fancy flown Of my scornful, loveless mind? Whither the soul I called my own? And the heart that none may find Where it was--whither hath it gone? Where can my whole being be? Whence come I and whither flee? Know I aught of this my pass? Am I he that once I was, Or have I been never he? On myself I call to explain, Yet I cannot prove the truth, Since to this pass I attain That of what I was in youth But a shadow I remain; Knowledge how myself to know, Help to help myself--these go Far from me, and sure I find Woe 'midst such confusion blind, Yet I think not of my woe. In this hapless state I lie, Captive to my sorrow's power, To the love that doth comply, Thus the present I adore, And bewail the days gone by; In the present I perceive That I die, and that I live In the past; now death I hold Sweet, and in the days of old Fate, that bliss no more can give. Blind am I, my woe is great In so strange an agony, For I see that Love doth prate, And that in the flames I lie, Yet 'tis water cold I hate; Save the water from mine eyes, Of the fire the fuel and prize, In the forge of Love I crave Water none, nor seek to have Other comfort to my sighs. All my bliss would now begin, All my sorrow now would end, If my fortune willed herein That my faith should from my friend For its truth assurance win; Come and tell Silena, sighs, Come, instruct Silena, eyes Filled with tears, that this is true; Come, confirm it, each of you, Pen and tongue and faculties.