Thirsting for that glad fount thy love revealeth,
While still thy look the glad fount turns to gall.
In every infant cry my soul is heark'ning,
The haunting happiness for ever o'er,
And all the bitterness of death is dark'ning
The heavenly looks that smiled mine eyes before.
11.
Hell, if my sight those looks a moment misses—
Hell, when my sight upon those looks is turn'd—
The avenging furies madden in thy kisses,