Since mercy's door is closed, alas! to me,
    And hopeless paths my poor life separate
    From her in whom, I know not by what fate,
    The guerdon lay of all my constancy,
    My heart that lacks not other food, on sighs
    I feed: to sorrow born, I live on tears:
    Nor therefore mourn I: sweeter far appears
    My present grief than others can surmise.
    On thy dear portrait rests alone my view,
    Which nor Praxiteles nor Xeuxis drew,
    But a more bold and cunning pencil framed.
    What shore can hide me, or what distance shield,
    If by my cruel exile yet untamed
    Insatiate Envy finds me here concealed?

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