Chapter XXXV

What fault within me dost thou cultivate?
What still reject, though I assure my heart
That I am all thine own, and not in part
The man thou dost possess and captivate?
Still, while I thank the gods, I would berate
The irony of nature that doth start
In me the wound that Cupid’s fiery dart
Hath caused to flow, and mourn it, now too late.
Why must the mistress of emotion give
To one a portion of divine desire,
And to another an unending flow
Of love’s untempered thought, that cannot live,
Save in some reservoir, that must inspire
The whole of thy fair being love to know?