How the Lover Perisheth in His Delight, As the Fly in the Fire

Some fowls there be that have so perfect sight
Against the sun their eyes for to defend;
And some, because the light doth them offend,
Never appear but in the dark or night.
Other rejoice to see the fire so bright
And ween to play in it, as they pretend,
But find contrary of it they intend.
Alas, of that sort may I be by right.
For to withstand her look I am not able;
Yet can I not hide me in no dark place;
So followeth me remembrance of that face,
That with teary eye, swollen, and unstable,
My destiny to behold her doth me lead;
And yet I know, I run into the glede.
Author of original: 
Francesco Petrarch
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