Not for her sighs these hands, with artless strokes, caressed.
Nor for a fervid whisper of desire,
Not withstanding all the hunger that my heart possessed,
For that the ink I spilt was not inspired.
Not for one kiss should I ever trade my passion, my art,
Nor seek such lucrative returns
From the blind investment of the heart...
Those are wages that richer men than I have earned
