But it should not be
forgotten that a poet may love a sentiment for its own sake, without
being in the least influenced by it. Many a troubadour drew inspiration
from an emotion which all praised as the supreme value; even if he had
no earthly mistress, he adored the sublime sentiment. Not infrequently
it happened that a troubadour who had been loud in praise of high love
and denunciation of base desire--a trick of his trade--suddenly came to
himself and changed his mind. Folquet of Marseilles, for instance, after
more than ten years of vain sighing, came to the conclusion that he had
been a fool.
Deceitful love beguiles the simple fool
And binds with magic thongs the hapless wight;
That like a moth lured by the candle-light,
He hovers, helpless, round the heartless ghoul.
I cast thee out and follow other stars
Full evil was my meed and recompense--
New courage steels my fainting heart, and hence
I kneel at shrines which passion never mars.
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