Methinketh that I ne’er
Of other love shall reck or have desire
Whene’er I mirror me, I see therein
That good which still contenteth heart and spright;
Nor fortune new nor thought of old can win
To dispossess me of such dear delight.
What other object, then, could fill my sight,
Enough of pleasance e’er
To kindle in my breast a new desire?
This good flees not, what time soe’er I’m fain