His love, alive; himself, dead mote.30
Who feels not love’s all-quick’ning flame,
Is like the bird whose wing is lame.
Can I be quiet, easy, glad,
When my delight’s away? No! Sad.
Love bids my plaint all bonds to burst.
My heart would break, with silence curst.
A mirror best portrays when bright;
Begrimed with rust, its gleam grows slight.
Then wipe such foul alloy away;