O you, who hears in scattered verse the sound
Of all those sighs with which my heart I fed,
When I, by youthful error was misled,
Unlike my present self in passion drowned;
Who hears the woes, the pleadings that abound
Throughout my song, by hopes and vain griefs bred;
If ever true love its influence over you shed,
Oh ! let your pity be with pardon crowned.
But now full well I see how to the crowd
For a long time I proved a public jest:
E'ven by myself my folly is allowed:
And of my vanity what's left is shame,
Repentance, and a knowledge deep impressed,
That worldly pleasure is a passing dream.
Translated by the Rev. Nott
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