And in my face’s cheer
Displays my happihead: for being enamoured
In such a worship-worthy place and high
Makes eath to me the burning I aby.
I cannot with my finger what I feel
Limn, Love, nor do I know
By bliss in song to vent;
Nay, though I knew it, needs must I conceal,
For, once divulged, I trow
’Twould turn to dreariment.