Thy ruth to seek.
And come to thee—a slave to his lord—
I'd pay thee homage with eyes that mourn,
Until thy mercy I'd implored,
Heedless of laughter, heedless of scorn.
Raimon of Miraval had said, "I am no lover, I am a worshipper," and Cavalcanti:
My lady's virtue has my blindness riven,
A secret sighing thrills my humbled heart:
When favoured with a sight of her thou art,
Thy soul will spread its wings and soar to heaven.