in silence, aye, and die,
     Than save myself by bringing her annoy
     For whose sweet sake grim death itself were joy.’ 
     And yet, thought I, my death some pain might give
     To her for whom I would be strong, and live: 
     For have I not, fair lady, promised plain,
     My journey ended, to return again
     And guide thee and thy spouse to where he now
     Doth yearn to call on God from Sion’s brow? 
     And none would lead thee thither should I die. 
     If I were dead, methinks I see thee sigh
     In sore distress, for then thou couldst not start
     Upon that journey, dear unto thy heart. 
     So I will live, and, in a little space,
     Return to lead thee to the sacred place. 
     Aye, I will live, though death a boon would be
     Only to be refused for sake of thee. 
     But if I live, I needs must straight remove
     The burden from my heart, and speak my love,
     That love more loyal, tender, deep, and true,
     Than, ever yet, the fondest lover knew. 
     And now, bold words about to wing your flight,
     What will ye say when ye have reached her sight? 
     Declare her all the love that fills my heart? 
     Too weak ye are to tell its thousandth part! 
     Can ye at least not say that her clear eyes
     Have torn my hapless heart forth in such wise,
     That like a hollow tree I pine and wither
     Unless hers give me back some life and vigour? 
     Ye feeble words! ye cannot even tell
     How easily her eyes a heart compel;
     Nor can ye praise her speech in language fit,
     So weak and dull ye are, so void of wit. 
     Yet there are some things I would have you name—­
     How mute and foolish I oft time became
     When all her grace and virtue I beheld;
     How from my ’raptured eyes tears slowly welled
     The tears of hopeless love; how my tongue strayed
     From fond and wooing speech, so sore afraid,
     That all my discourse was of time and tide,
     And of the stars which up in Heav’n abide. 
     O words, alas! ye lack the skill to tell
     The dire confusion that upon me fell,
     Whilst love thus wracked me; nor can ye disclose
     My love’s immensity, its pains and woes. 
     Yet, though, for all, your powers be too weak,
     Perchance, some little, ye are fit to speak—­
     Say to her thus:  “Twas fear lest thou shouldst chide
     That drove me, e’en so long, my love to hide,
     And yet, forsooth, it might have openly
     Been told to God in Heaven, as unto thee,
     Based as it is upon thy virtue—­thought
     That to my torments frequent balm hath brought,
     For who, indeed, could ever deem it sin
     To seek the owner of all worth to win? 
     Deserving rather of our blame were he
     Who having seen thee undisturbed could be.’ 
     None such was I, for,