Halt, you shadow of my fleeting joy,
image of the charms I most desire,
lovely dream for whom I laughing die,
sweet untruth for whom I grieving live.
If to the magnet of your graces' pull,
my heart responds like an obedient steel,
to what end do you court me, flattering
if later you will mock me, fugitive?
But don't think you can boast, self-satisfied,
that your tyranny triumphs over me:
for though you've fled and the tight noose have mocked
that once encircled your fantastic form,
I care not that you mock my arms and breast
for in my mind's own prison you are locked.