WHEN, to my deadly pleasure, When to my lively torment, Lady, mine eyes remainéd Joinéd, alas! to your beams. With violence of heavenly Beauty, tied to virtue; Reason abashed retiréd; Gladly my senses yielded. Gladly my senses yielding, Thus to betray my heart’s fort, Left me devoid of all life. They to the beamy suns went, Where, by the death of all deaths, Find to what harm they hastened. Like to the silly Sylvan, Burned by the light he best liked, When with a fire he first met. Yet, yet, a life to their death, Lady you have reservéd; Lady the life of all love. For though my sense be from me, And I be dead, who want sense, Yet do we both live in you. Turnéd anew, by your means, Unto the flower that aye turns, As you, alas! my sun bends. Thus do I fall to rise thus; Thus do I die to live thus; Changed to a change, I change not. Thus may I not be from you; Thus be my senses on you; Thus what I think is of you; Thus what I seek is in you; All what I am, it is you. VERSES. _To the tune of a Neapolitan song_, _which beginneth_, “_No_, _no_, _no_, _no_.” NO, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe, Although with cruel fire, First thrown on my desire, She sacks my rendered sprite; For so fair a flame embraces All the places, Where that heat of all heats springeth, That it bringeth To my dying heart some pleasure, Since his treasure Burneth bright in fairest light. No, no, no, no. No, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe, Although with cruel fire, First thrown on my desire, She sacks my rendered sprite; Since our lives be not immortal, But to mortal Fetters tied, do wait the hour Of death’s power, They have no cause to be sorry Who with glory End the way, where all men stay. No, no, no, no. No, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe, Although with cruel fire, First thrown on my desire, She sacks my rendered sprite; No man doubts, whom beauty killeth, Fair death feeleth, And in whom fair death proceedeth, Glory breedeth: So that I, in her beams dying, Glory trying, Though in pain, cannot complain. No, no, no, no. SONG. _To the tune of a Neapolitan Villanel_. ALL my sense thy sweetness gained; Thy fair hair my heart enchained; My poor reason thy words moved, So that thee, like heaven, I loved. Fa, la, la, leridan, dan, dan, dan, deridan: Dan, dan, dan, deridan, deridan, dei: While to my mind the outside stood, For messenger of inward good. Nor thy sweetness sour is deemed; Thy hair not worth a hair esteemed; Reason hath thy words removed, Finding that but words they proved.