Ye made us a promise of yore; will ye not to your promise be true? Ye spoke us a word aforetime; as ye spoke to us, will ye not do? We waken, whilst ye are asleep, according to passion's decree; So have ye the vantage of us, for watchers and sleepers are two. We vowed to each other, whilere, that we would keep secret our loves; But the breedbate possessed you to speak, and you spoke and revealed what none knew. Belovéd in pleasure and pain, chagrin and contentment alike, Whate'er may betide, ye alone are the goal that my wishes ensue. There's one that still holdeth a heart, a heart sore tormented of mine; Ah, would she'd have ruth on my plight and pity the soul that she slew! Not every one's eye is as mine, worn wounded and cankered with tears, And hearts that are, even as mine, the bondslaves of passion, are few. Ye acted the tyrant with me, saying, "Love is a tyrant, I trow." Indeed, ye were right, and the case has proved what ye said to be true. Alack! They've forgotten outright a passion-distraught one, whose faith Time 'minisheth not, though the fires in his entrails rage ever anew. If my foeman in love be my judge, to whom shall I make my complaint? To whom of injustice complain, to whom for redress shall I sue? Were it not for my needing of love and the ardour that burns in my breast, I had not a heart love-enslaved and a soul that for passion must rue.