remember rightly, it runs in this way: No fear have I before the frost and fire, The bow and arrows of the tyrant Love, And so I needs must sing in his dispraise; For who shall fear a blind boy whose desire Varies, whose judgment doth inconstant rove, Although he threaten wounds and sad decays? My pleasure doth increase, his worth decays, When I employ my tongue To utter the true song Which in reproach of Love himself I form, So rich in truth, in manner, and in form, That unto all Love's malice it reveals, And clearly doth inform The world of the sure hurt that Love conceals. Love is a fire that burns the soul within, A frost that freezes; dart that opes the breast, Which heedeth not its cunning manifold; A troubled sea where calm hath ne'er been seen; Wrath's minister; enemy manifest, In guise of friend; father of dismay cold; Giver of scanty good and ill untold; Caressing; full of lies; Fierce in his tyrannies; A traitorous Circe that transforms us all To divers monstrous shapes fantastical Wherefrom no power of man can us restore, Though quickly at our call Comes reason's light, to what we were before, A yoke that doth the proudest neck abase; A mark to which desires of slothful ease, Born without reason, go as to their goal; A treacherous net, which men of highest place Amidst their foul and unclean sins doth seize And doth within its subtle mesh enthrall; A pleasing ill that tempts the senses all; Poison in guise of pill, Gilded, but poison still; A bolt that burns and cleaves where it descendeth; An angry arm that traitorously offendeth; Headsman that dooms the thought which captive lies, Or which itself defendeth From the sweet charm of his false fantasies;