STrange is this thing! My horse I cannot make With spur, with speech, nor yet with rod in hand, Force him to go; although great pains I take. Do what I can; he still, as tired, doth stand. No doubt he feels a heavy weight of me; Which is the cause he standeth still as stone: Nor is he 'ware that now he carrieth three; He thinks, poor jade, I am on 's back alone. But three we are, with mine own self I prove: Laura is in my heart; in soul is Love.
XXXV.
WHen I, of my sweet Laura leave did take; Fair Fano's city, for a while to leave: She gave to me, to wear it for her sake, Of gold and pearl a dainty woven wreath. Dear was the gift; because for love it came: But dearer more; 'cause She gave me the same. I look on 't still, and kiss it as my joy; Kissing and bussing it, with it I play: Which, at one instant, brings me mirth and 'noy; And sighing oft thus to myself I say: "White pearls are these; yet hath her mouth more fair! Fine gold is this; yet finer is her hair!"
XXXVI.