Classic Poem

False, woman, is the faith you place
Upon the fairness of your face.
The biased judgment of mine eyes
Has made you proud and far from wise.
It shames me now that songs of praise
Came from me in the olden days.
I sang your varied charms a lot
And called you things that you were not.
“The morning star,” I sang, “you seem!”
The shine was only facial cream.
My father's friends said I was wrong
To celebrate you in my song,
But they, nor the Thessalian witch,
Could cure me of my lover's itch—
As I admitted truthfully
Wrecked on a sad and troublous sea.
For when by Venus I was caught,
She bound my hands behind me taut.
But lo! my ships have found the bay;
Mine anchor's cast; I shout “Hooray!”
My sense my folly has revealed;
My wounds are well, my scars are healed.
Since Jove was deaf, and never heard
Me penitent as one who erred,
I dedicate myself to thee,
Good Sense, if goddess such there be!