Fortune's unjust; she ruins oft the brave, and him who should be victor, makes the slave.
Ye moon and stars, bear witness to the truth.
But how can finite grasp Infinity?
Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit, The power of beauty I remember yet.
He look'd in years, yet in his years were seen A youthful vigor, and autumnal green.
None but the brave deserve the fair.