Give me my lute: in thee some ease I find.
Euridice is dead
And to that dismal region fled,
Where all is sad and gloomy as my mind.

The world has nothing worth a lover's care:
None now by rivers weep,
Verse and the lute are both asleep;
All women now are false, and few are fair.

Thy scepter, Love, shall o'er the aged be;
Lay by your useless darts,
For all the young will guard their hearts
And scorn thy fading empire, taught by me.

Beauty the Thracian youth no more shall mourn;
The young shall sigh no more,
But all my noble verse adore;
It has more graces than the Queen of Love.