It is not that I love you less
    Than when before your feet I lay:
But to prevent the sad increase
    Of hopeless love, I keep away.

In vain! (alas!) for ev'ry thing
    Which I have known belong to you,
Your form does to my fancy bring,
    And makes my old wounds bleed anew.

Who in the Spring from the new Sun
    Already has a fever got,
Too late begins those shafts to shun,
    Which Phoebus through his veins has shot.

Too late he would the pain assuage,
    And to shadows thick he doth retire;
About with him he bears the rage,
    And in his tainted blood the fire.

But vow'd I have, and never must
    Your banish'd servant trouble you;
For if I break, you may distrust
    The vow I made to love you, too.