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 reserved;
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.
Turned 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.
POEM: 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.
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