Love has turned my heart around Making my appointments late While I only procrastinate And stick my head into the ground. A spring within me ticking tightens; Manic frenzy yields succession Of melancholy to depression: Sleepless nights until dawn lightens.
Fortuna, must I be your fool? My woe is not the want of wit But temperance in using it. I never tarried from Cupid's school; Yet would I be love's loyal subject If I could predicate my object. |