Ballad Vi Poem by Christine de Pizan

Thou, O Love, the traitor art !
Tender once as any may,
Then the wielder of the dart
That is pointed but to slay.
Thee with reason, by my fay,
Double-visaged we declare :
One is as the ashes grey,
But one is as an angel fair.

Loth am I to find my part
In the night without a ray,
Yet desire hath stung my heart
And I sigh in sorrow's sway.

Gentle hope will never stay
In the mansions of despair :
One to death would point the way,
But one is as an angel fair.

Hope might in my spirit start,
Death thy servant bids her nay :
While beneath thy scourge I smart,
Doleful still must be my lay,
Since to set my steps astray,
Thou at once art wheat and tare :
One is like a devil, yea,
But one is as an angel fair.

Love, thou teachest me to say
Double tribute is to pay
For thy servants everywhere :
One is grievous, well-a-day !
But one is as an angel fair.