Tears, bitter tears adown my pale cheek rain,
    Bursts from mine anguish’d breast a storm of sighs,
    Whene’er on you I turn my passionate eyes,
    For whom alone this bright world I disdain. 
    True! to my ardent wishes and old pain
    That mild sweet smile a peaceful balm supplies,
    Rescues me from the martyr fire that tries,
    Rapt and intent on you whilst I remain;
    Thus in your presence—­but my spirits freeze
    When, ushering with fond acts a warm adieu,
    My fatal stars from life’s quench’d heaven decay. 
    My soul released at last with Love’s apt keys
    But issues from my heart to follow you,
    Nor tears itself without much thought away.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XVI.

Quand’ io son tutto volto in quella parte.

HE FLIES, BUT PASSION PURSUES HIM.

      When I reflect and turn me to that part
    Whence my sweet lady beam’d in purest light,
    And in my inmost thought remains that light
    Which burns me and consumes in every part,
    I, who yet dread lest from my heart it part
    And see at hand the end of this my light,
    Go lonely, like a man deprived of light,
    Ignorant where to go; whence to depart. 
    Thus flee I from the stroke which lays me dead,
    Yet flee not with such speed but that desire
    Follows, companion of my flight alone. 
    Silent I go:—­but these my words, though dead,
    Others would cause to weep—­this I desire,
    That I may weep and waste myself alone.

    CAPEL LOFFT.

      When all my mind I turn to the one part
    Where sheds my lady’s face its beauteous light,
    And lingers in my loving thought the light
    That burns and racks within me ev’ry part,
    I from my heart who fear that it may part,
    And see the near end of my single light,
    Go, as a blind man, groping without light,
    Who knows not where yet presses to depart. 
    Thus from the blows which ever wish me dead
    I flee, but not so swiftly that desire
    Ceases to come, as is its wont, with me. 
    Silent I move:  for accents of the dead
    Would melt the general age:  and I desire
    That sighs and tears should only fall from me.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XVII.

Son animali al mondo di si altera.

HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A MOTH.

      Creatures there are in life of such keen sight
    That no defence they need from noonday sun,
    And others dazzled by excess of light
    Who issue not abroad till day is done,
    And, with weak fondness, some because ’tis bright,
    Who in the death-flame for enjoyment run,
    Thus proving theirs a different virtue quite—­
    Alas! of this last kind myself