My love for thee hath ta’en away my rest;
By day and night I think of thee alone;
I muse upon the curls which veil thy breast,
And sigh to know that thou art not mine own.
My love for thee is madness! All esteem
My passion folly who do look on me;
The arrows of thine eyes have drank the stream
Of my fond heart; and I must part from thee.
My love for thee is deep; and I of late
Can look upon none other—Thou art cold,