D' altrui pietoso.

Kind to the world, but to itself unkind,
    A worm is born, that dying noiselessly
    Despoils itself to clothe fair limbs, and be
    In its true worth by death alone divined.
Oh, would that I might die, for her to find
    Raiment in my outworn mortality!
    That, changing like the snake, I might be free
    To cast the slough wherein I dwell confined!
Nay, were it mine, that shaggy fleece that stays,
    Woven and wrought into a vestment fair,
    Around her beauteous bosom in such bliss!
All through the day she'd clasp me! Would I were
    The shoes that bear her burden! When the ways
    Were wet with rain, her feet I then should kiss!