No!  I this conflict longer will not wage,
    The conflict duty claims-the giant task;-
   Thy spells, O virtue, never can assuage
    The heart’s wild fire-this offering do not ask

   True, I have sworn-a solemn vow have sworn,
    That I myself will curb the self within;
   Yet take thy wreath, no more it shall be worn-
    Take back thy wreath, and leave me free to sin.

   Rent be the contract I with thee once made;-
    She loves me, loves me-forfeit be the crown! 
   Blessed he who, lulled in rapture’s dreamy shade,
    Glides, as I glide, the deep fall gladly down.

   She sees the worm that my youth’s bloom decays,
    She sees my spring-time wasted as it flees;
   And, marvelling at the rigor that gainsays
    The heart’s sweet impulse, my reward decrees.

   Distrust this angel purity, fair soul! 
    It is to guilt thy pity armeth me;
   Could being lavish its unmeasured whole,
    It ne’er could give a gift to rival thee!

   Thee-the dear guilt I ever seek to shun,
    O tyranny of fate, O wild desires! 
   My virtue’s only crown can but be won
    In that last breath-when virtue’s self expires!