At whiles (yea oftentimes) I muse
The quality of anguish that is
Through Love: then pity makes my voice to
Saying, "Is any else thus, anywhere?"Love smileth me, whose strength is ill to bear;
So that of all my life is left no
Except one thought; and that, because 'tis thine,
Leaves not the body but abideth there.
And then if I, whom other aid forsook,
Would aid myself, and innocent of
Would fain have sight of thee as a last hope,
No sooner do I lift mine eyes to
Than the blood seems as shaken from my heart,
And all my pulses beat at once and stop.
