One day as slowly sauntering from the port,
A thousand cares conflicting in my breast,
Thus I began to commune with myself—
Methinks these painters misapply their art,
And never knew the being which they draw;
For mark! their many false conceits of Love.
Love is nor male nor female, man nor god,
Nor with intelligence nor yet without it,
But a strange compound of all these, uniting
In one mix'd essence many opposites;