I walk, I trust,
with open eyes;
I've travelled half my worldly course;
And in the way between my lies
Much vanity and some remorse.
I've lived to feel how pride may part
Spirits, tho' matched like hand and glove;
I've blushed for love's abode, the heart;
But have not disbelieved in love;
Nor unto love, sole mortal thing
Or worth immortal, done the wrong
To count it, with the rest that sing
Unworthy of a serious song;
And love is my reward: for now,
When most dead'ning time complain,
The myrtle blooms upon my brow,
it's odour quickens all my brain.
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