All you that hear in scattered rhymes the sound
of sighs on which I used to feed my heart
in youthful error when I was in part
another man, and not what I am now,
for the vain hopes, vain sorrows I avow,
in tears and discourse of my varied art,
in any who have played a lover's part
pity I hope to find, and pardon too.
But now I plainly see how I became
a mocking tale that common people tell,
and in myself my self I put to shame;
and of my raving all the fruit is shame,
and penitence, and knowing all too well
that what the world loves is a passing dream.
Translated by Anthony Mortimer