I promise you this, lil Cupid, by your quivers, I woe not if the arrow injures, my heart seared, ruined by
such wound: however remote the years soon
to pass or that which came, never a lass by any name could rightly be aware the stain nor such feasting on my hearths flame by gluttonous Love, a heart in chains; and do consider the purity born from martyrdom. That which cures and calms the feeling of agony, to the point it be hardly ever felt, a mere hinting at pain dealt in only the slightest degree. No! That which tortures my one and only spirit and body, just that fear is what truly is the dismay heralding my imminent decease and decay: for my fierce fire may be but the only flame which burns so in this cold and cruel world I tread all alone as it turns, in confused hopefulness I yearn to see you deliver -and impatiently I lie awake at night waiting for her.