Then grew a wrinkle on fair Venus' brow, The amber sweet of love is turn'd to gall! Gloomy was Heaven; bright Phoebus did avow He would be coy, and would not love at all; Swearing no greater mischief could be wrought, Than love united to a jealous thought.
When I arrived at the point where I received public acclaim, I felt the most lowly, because I knew within myself that I had but begun to tap my inner resources.