papers hold
    Of thoughts, of tears, of ink; which oft I fold,
    Unfold, and tear:  since when I know the scope
    Of Love, and what they fear, and what they hope;
    And how they live that in his cloister dwell,
    The skilful in their face may read it well. 
    Meanwhile I see, how fierce and gallant she
    Cares not for me, nor for my misery,
    Proud of her virtue, and my overthrow: 
    And on the other side (if aught I know),
    This lord, who hath the world in triumph led,
    She keeps in fear; thus all my hopes are dead,
    No strength nor courage left, nor can I be
    Revenged, as I expected once; for he,
    Who tortures me and others, is abused
    By her; she’ll not be caught, and long hath used
    (Rebellious as she is!) to shun his wars,
    And is a sun amidst the lesser stars. 
    Her grace, smiles, slights, her words in order set;
    Her hair dispersed or in a golden net;
    Her eyes inflaming with a light divine
    So burn my heart, I dare no more repine. 
    Ah, who is able fully to express
    Her pleasing ways, her merit?  No excess,
    No bold hyperboles I need to fear,
    My humble style cannot enough come near
    The truth; my words are like a little stream
    Compared with th’ ocean, so large a theme
    Is that high praise; new worth, not seen before,
    Is seen in her, and can be seen no more;
    Therefore all tongues are silenced; and I,
    Her prisoner now, see her at liberty: 
    And night and day implore (O unjust fate!)
    She neither hears nor pities my estate: 
    Hard laws of Love!  But though a partial lot
    I plainly see in this, yet must I not
    Refuse to serve:  the gods, as well as men,
    With like reward of old have felt like pain. 
    Now know I how the mind itself doth part
    (Now making peace, now war, now truce)—­what art
    Poor lovers use to hide their stinging woe: 
    And how their blood now comes, and now doth go
    Betwixt their heart and cheeks, by shame or fear: 
    How they be eloquent, yet speechless are;
    And how they both ways lean, they watch and sleep,
    Languish to death, yet life and vigour keep: 
    I trod the paths made happy by her feet,
    And search the foe I am afraid to meet. 
    I know how lovers metamorphosed are
    To that they love:  I know what tedious care
    I feel; how vain my joy, how oft I change
    Design and countenance; and (which is strange)
    I live without a soul:  I know the way
    To cheat myself a thousand times a day: 
    I know to follow while I flee my fire
    I freeze when present; absent, my desire
    Is hot:  I know what cruel rigour Love
    Practiseth on the mind, and doth remove
    All reason thence, and how he racks the heart: 
    And how a soul hath neither strength nor art