Note 10 — Volume XI.
Reading edition
I often wish that I were Phœbus, Not for his heaven-born knowledge of herbs, For the pain which I seek to deaden Can be cured by no herb that grows. Nor is it to have my abode in the firmament, Nor for his bow to contend against Love, For I do not choose to betray my king. I long to be Phœbus simply for this, To be beloved by Diane the fair.