Yields up his own that blissful soul to gain! Debtor am I unto my fatal star, That bade me yield to one who doth possess Within so fair a frame a soul so fair. To me thy mood, oh lady, doth confess That I was wrong when I aspired so high, And covereth with fear my hopefulness. But on my honest purpose I rely, I turn a bold face to despondency, New breath I gain when I to death am nigh. They say that without hope Love cannot be. 'Tis mere opinion: for I hope no more And yet the more Love's force doth master me. I love thee for thy goodness, and adore, Thy beauty draws me captive in its train, It was the net Love stretched in love's first hour That with rare subtlety it might constrain This soul of mine, careless and fancy-free, Unto the amorous knot, to know its strain. Love his dominion and his tyranny Within some breasts sustains by beauty's aid, But not within the curious fantasy, Which looks not on Love's narrow noose displayed In ringlets of fine gold that satisfy The heart of him who views them undismayed, Nor on the breast that he who turns his eye On breast alone, doth alabaster call Nor on the wondrous neck of ivory; But it regards the hidden all in all And contemplates the thousand charms displayed Within the soul that succour and enthral. The charms that are but mortal, doomed to fade, Unto the soul immortal bring not balm, Unless it leave the light and seek the shade. Thy peerless virtue carrieth off the palm, It maketh of my thoughts its spoil and prey, And all my lustful passions it doth calm. They are content and willingly obey, For by the worth thy merits ever show They seek their hard and bitter pain to weigh. I plough the sea and in the sand I sow When I am doomed by passion's mystic stress Beyond the viewing of thy face to go. I know how high thou art; my lowliness I see, and where the distance is so great, One may not hope, nor do I hope possess. Wherefore I find no cure to heal my state, Numerous my hardships as the stars of night, Or as the tribes the earth that populate. I understand what for my soul is right, I know the better, and the worse attain, Borne by the love wherein I take delight. But now, fair Nisida, the point I gain, Which I with mortal anguish do desire, Where I shall end the sorrow I sustain. Uplifted is the hostile arm in ire, The keen and ruthless sword awaiteth me,