A thousand does there are, a thousand maids,
And yet there are a hundred fit for me,
I set my sights on one, of sight and age,
That pleases all my fancy and dismay.
For as I do advance, she flees away-
Or as I choose to act, another has-
Must always my desire be at bay,
When all my hope and misery are hers?
With anguish'd heart, I draw myself away,
With bleeding soul, I dare accept the truth-
I choose again, another comely maid,
To find her gone from me, oh horrid youth!
I either long for treasure far too vast,
Or for despair and sorrow to the last!
-Vir Cogitans Americanus
Scribit Dies XVII Septembris, Anno Domini MMVII