XCIII*
Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my credit in this World much wrong:
Have drown’d my Glory in a shallow Cup,
And sold my reputation for a Song.
XCIV*
Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before
I swore — but was I sober when I swore?
And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand
My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.
XCV*
And much as Wine has play’d the Infidel,
And robb’d me of my Robe of Honour — Well,
I wonder often what the Vintners buy
One half so precious as the stuff they sell.
XCVI*
Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth’s sweet-scented manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the branches sang,
Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knows!