I wish, extolling to the skies, Her beauty’s high perfection To sing, and all her witcheries Of feature and complexion: With master pencil to portray Her snowy neck and forehead, And eyes that round so roguish play, And lips like carmine florid. And let the Catos go at will, To where they most prefer it, Who withering frowns and sneerings still Give me for my demerit. In spite of all, with wrinkled pate, The censures each rehearses, Enarda I will celebrate For ever in my verses. TO ENARDA.--II. Cruel Enarda! all in vain, In vain, thou view’st with joyful eyes The tears that show my grief and pain, Thyself exulting in my sighs. The burning tears that bathe my cheek, With watching shrunk, with sorrow pale, Thy lightness and caprice bespeak, Thy guilt and perfidy bewail. Those signs of sorrow, on my face, Are not the obsequies portray’d Of a lost good, nor yet the trace Of tribute to thy beauties paid. They are the evidence alone There fix’d thy falsehood to proclaim; Of thy deceits the horror shown, Of my delirium the shame. I weep not now thy rigours o’er, Nor feel regret, that lost to me Are the returns, which false before Thou gavest, or favours faithlessly. I weep o’er my delusions blind; I mourn the sacrifices made, And incense to a god unkind On an unworthy altar laid. I weep the memory o’er debased Of my captivity to mourn, And all the weight and shame disgraced Of such vile fetters to have borne. Ever to my lorn mind return’d Are thoughts of homage offer’d ill, Disdains ill borne, affection spurn’d, And sighs contemn’d, recurring still. Then, ah, Enarda! all in vain Thou think’st to please thee with my grief: Love, who now looks on me again With eyes of pity and relief, A thousand times has me accost, As thus my tears to censure now, “To lose them thou hast nothing lost; Poor creature! why then weepest thou?” II. TOMAS DE IRIARTE.