"No; these, which are the index of my woes, These are not sighs, nor sighs are such; they fail At times, and have their season of repose:
I feel, my breast can never less exhale Its sorrow: Love, who with his pinions blows The fire about my heart, creates this gale.
Love, by what miracle does thou contrive, It wastes not in the fire thou keep'st alive?
