1. Does spring depart, my Lord, and yet no spring
To us has come, or gentle rain from you?

2. The showers of poetry are growing rare;
The beggar's bowls run over with your dew.

3. If you should hear the verse or hear the want,
Then know, I am the poet poor but true.

4. When men shall say, 'What has he spent? How much
Enriched?' no gold is mine, no gifts from you.

5. I lie in praising men of little worth,
And great the sin. This penance shall be due.

6. Would that you ne'er had found me fit to scan
My verse at all, but sent me to a few

7. Who know that gifts are great, and givers kind.
Can churls enrich the life of prince like you?

8. You paid false coins for poems. Can it be?
Is this your custom when you authors woo?

9. Then send me back rejected to the clouds
Which drop their rain, and hide their tears in dew.

10. Since the full bridal gift was yours to give,
Yours is all grace and bounty ever new.