Had I been only that which you enjoyed,
Nought were I now but old grimacing bones,
Masking with painted lips rheumatic groans,
The spectre of past pleasures that have cloyed,
The blossomed shade where Amaryllis toyed
Turned to a wilderness of stumps and stones,
Or gaunt Næera, among kindred crones,
Superfluous, meddlesome and unemployed.

Best comradeship, how frail a tie it is,
Though we entreat of it its sure delights!
Can any love our days that loved our nights,
Or feign contentment who has fed on bliss?
Not lips alone become too old to kiss;
Yet, O my other soul—was I but this?