Were an act, Heaven, nor you, could ever pardon;
And still less I. Nor would I now forego,
Even for your love, the deep, divine delight
Of this most pure and unsuspected passion,
That none have guessed, or will, while I have life.
You smile, perchance. Beware! I shall shame you,
If with suspicion’s plummet you dare sound
The unfathomed deeps of feeling in this heart.
It shall bring up, ’stead of that love it seeks,
A scorn you look not for. Ay, I would die