You answer with a gesture of your hand
Though I have asked not, I have only sworn.
Would you then burn green shoots with withered scorn?
My lady, you do waste your flaming brand.
I draw the pictures you desire to hide,
When you return such compliments for mine,
For love makes bitter poison into sweet.
And there’ll be memory, when our quick eyes meet,
To stir into a bubbling the gay wine.
—Which of us will have fallen in our pride?