Chapter CII

My love makes of my life a sad display;
All full of good desires within me born,
Like youthful verdure in the early morn;
Yet by its mischief ruining each day.
No more have I the courage that shall say:
“From such poor revenue let me be torn,
Lest my life’s high estate be basely shorn,
And I no longer have wherewith to pay.”
No! still I hold to thy heart’s company,
That would but seldom grant what I may use,
Not knowing by what power thou holdest me;
Yet giving all; that all must still refuse;
Unless this line be writ upon the sky,
And bring eternal life to this my muse.