Oh nay, Oh nay! I swear it by the key
Of Paradise that she holds in her hands.
By all beatitude that she erewhile
Has granted me, that she can grant me still,
I lash what she became, not what she did.
You eye me doubtfully, you think I reach
Myself in her. I do it, oh I do it!
If it may hap that men can die of wounds
They give and not receive, then even now
’Twill come to pass—and yet to my content.