Only the hand secure and bold
Which still obeys the mind.
So hide in thee, thou heavenly dame,
The ill I shun, the good I claim;
I, alas! not well alive,
Miss the aim whereto I strive.
Not love, nor beauty’s pride,
Nor fortune, nor thy coldness can I chide,
If whilst within thy heart abide
Both death and pity, my unequal skill