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DIALOGUE OF THE POET WITH HIS HEART.
_P._ What actions fire thee, and what musings fill? / Soul! is it peace, or truce, or war eterne? / _H._ Our lot I know not, but, as I discern, / Her bright eyes favour not our cherish'd ill. / _P._ What profit, with those eyes if she at will / Makes us in summer freeze, in winter burn? / _H._ From him, not her those orbs their movement learn. / _P._ What's he to us, she sees it and is still. / _H._ Sometimes, though mute the tongue, the heart laments / Fondly, and, though the face be calm and bright, / Bleeds inly, where no eye beholds its grief. / _P._ Nathless the mind not thus itself contents, / Breaking the stagnant woes which there unite, / For misery in fine hopes finds no relief.