"His eye-balls seem deep-buried in his head, His nose seems grown -- his cheeks are pined so sore-- Nor even remains (his beauty so is fled)
Enough to warrant what he was before.
Such fever burns him, of his sorrow bred, He halts on Arbia's and on Arno's shore;
And, if a charm is left, 'tis faded soon, And withered like a rose-bud plucked at noon.