MY Laura wonders that, in visage pale, I bear of Death itself, the lively show: But if She muse at this, her musing's stale; For this sad colour had I long ago. The fire, close burning in my veins, doth make That outward ashes in my face you view: But if that She would on me pity take, Who is the cause of this my palish hue, This kindled heat shall die, which now doth burn; And my first colour shall again return.
XIX.
WHilst foaming steed I spur unto the quick, To make him gallop to my Love amain: Love doth my thoughts, through Fancy, forward prick; The end of wishèd journey mine to gain. But light's his hurt! 'Tis but a little smart! Where mine is mortal, sounding to the heart. Run then, my gelding swift, like Pegasus! Fly hence with wings! for wings hath my desire: Both of us, forced amain, are forward thus, And kindled in us is a burning fire. Thou, through two spurs in flank, provoked art sore: But thousands inwardly, my heart do gore.
XX.
