Sir Walter Raleigh’s speaker is done with love — or at least the counterfeit version of it that, looking back, ruined his youth. The poem is a relentless list of accusations. False love is a liar, a trapped maze, a poison hidden under flowers, a sirens’ song that shipwrecks the mind. Every image packs disgust: love is a “bastard vile,” a “gilded hook,” a fire that can’t be quenched. The mood is bitter and exhausted. There’s no gentle nostalgia here, just anger at having been seduced by pretty illusions. But the final stanza shifts slightly. Now that he sees how he was betrayed, he can say goodbye — not just to the false love, but to the very “root” from which these fancies grew. It’s a cold, hard-won clarity, the relief of cutting out an infection. The poem feels like a long-suppressed truth finally spoken aloud.
A Farewell to False Love — Summary
Farewell, false love, the oracle of lies, A mortal foe and enemy to rest, An envious boy, from whom all cares arise, A bastard vile, a beast with rage possessed, A way of error, a temple full of treason, In all effects contrary unto reason.
A poisoned serpent covered all with flowers, Mother of sighs, and murderer of repose, A sea of sorrows whence are drawn such showers As moisture lend to every grief that grows; A school of guile, a net of deep deceit, A gilded hook that holds a poisoned bait.
A fortress foiled, which reason did defend, A siren song, a fever of the mind, A maze wherein affection finds no end, A raging cloud that runs before the wind, A substance like the shadow of the sun, A goal of grief for which the wisest run.
A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear, A path that leads to peril and mishap, A true retreat of sorrow and despair, An idle boy that sleeps in pleasure's lap, A deep mistrust of that which certain seems, A hope of that which reason doubtful deems.
Sith then thy trains my younger years betrayed, And for my faith ingratitude I find; And sith repentance hath my wrongs bewrayed, Whose course was ever contrary to kind: False love, desire, and beauty frail, adieu. Dead is the root whence all these fancies grew.