How fleeting is the favor of my Muse,
Who doth desert me at the slightest whim:
What fancy tempts her weak, unfaithful mind?
What pleasure does she seek, so far from home?

Perhaps she seeks out firmer pens of truth;
Perhaps she wearies of this masquerade
In which she hides behind a thousand smiles,
Or writhes and shrinks in her imagined pain.

Dares she to seek the innocence of youth?
Her search unfruitful shall return, and so
She too shall then return to me, impaled
Upon an honest pen, a slinking corpse.