spuytenduyvil

My traitress Muse for you I suffered

And suffer still nor can forgive

That as I love while yet I live

You spurned the soul and heart I offered

 

Though love in poetry is not

What bears the race from age to age

Nor Eros’ torment and its rage

To stew within the fleshly pot

 

I love no virgin without breasts

But you the mother of our race

Your Goddess’ body and your face

Blest be who on your bosom rests

Desire there chastely holds its breath

For your defilement is death