Ambivalence

Thousand miles to rove,
Or may be some more,
Benign designs, so benevolent,
Sprouting in my mind,
Thy soul, that misleading hope,
Brings no peace, but despondency.

Desires' very old demeanor,
Of sinking hearts to depths,
Have left no glee, but scorn,
For men's honest memories,
My zeal too, no exception,
Brings no peace, but despondency.

My solemn rhymes, quite young,
Those, I wrote in the gentleness,
Of my youth's pleasant innocence,
Now I, being decrepit and weak,
Weeps and reckons that my memoir,
Brings no peace, but despondency.