The Eye, too afire with my youthful errors,

Whirled like a weathercock, without design:

When suddenly (what delight, what terrors)

My Basilisk, now sharpening its sights,

Pierced Body, & Heart, put Reason to flight,

Lancing deep into the Soul of my Soul.

The blow was hard, which without whetted blade

Kills the Spirit though the body survive,

Pitiful victim, I, now faced with you,

Lady, appointed Idol of my life.

— Maurice Sceve/translated by Richard Sieburth