poem 145

[She endeavors to expose the praises recorded in a portrait
of the Poetess by truth, which she calls passion.]

This object which you see — a painted snare
exhibiting the subtleties of art
with clever arguments of tone and hue —
is but a cunning trap to snare your sense;
this object, in which flattery has tried
to overlook the horrors of the years
and, conquering the ravages of time,
to overcome oblivion and age:
this is an empty artifice of care,
a flower, fragile, set out in the wind,
a letter of safe-conduct sent to Fate;
it is a foolish, erring diligence,
a palsied will to please which, clearly seen,
is a corpse, is dust, is shadow, and is gone.

Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz

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love

Here I lie mournful with desire,
feeble in bitterness of the pain
gods inflicted upon me,
stuck through the bones with love.

Archilochus

don juan

But passion most dissembles, yet betrays
Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky
Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays
Its workings through the vainly guarded eye,
And in whatever aspect it arrays
Itself, ‘t is still the same hypocrisy;
Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate,
Are masks it often wears, and still too late.

Lord Byron

verse

As rain breaks through an ill-thatched house,
passion will not break through a well-reflecting mind.

Dhammapada