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.