When I, in solitude, sit and think,

And from your precious memory drink,

I wish my lonely loving cup

Was with your own sweet self filled up.

But many a prize with yearning sought

Is often better given than bought,

And wilful passion stays its hand

When pride takes such a stubborn stand.

So I think on with you in mind

And from your golden image find

Some solace for an aching heart

So cruelly made to play this part.