O mad Desire, why dost thou flame and burn
And bear my Soul further and further yet
To the Belovéd; then, why dost thou turn
To bitter disappointment and regret?
Such light there gleams from the Belovéd's face
That every eye becomes her worshipper,
And every mirror, looking on her grace,
Desires to be the frame enclosing her.
Unhappy lovers, slaves of cruel chance,
In this grim place of slaughter strange indeed