Sweet is true love, tho' given in vain, in vain;
And sweet is death, who puts an end to pain;
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.

Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be;
Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me.
O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die.

Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away,
Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay,
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.

I fain would follow love, if that could be;
I needs must follow death, who calls for me:
Call and I follow, I follow! let me die!

What thing is love? for sure love is a thing.
It is a prick, it is a sting,
It is a pretty, pretty thing;
It is a fire, it is a coal,
Whose flame creeps in at every hole;

And as my wit doth best devise,
Love's dwelling is in ladies' eyes,
From whence do glance love's piercing darts,
That make such holes into our hearts;
And all the world herein accord,
Love is a great and mighty lord;
And when he list to mount so high,
With Venus he in heaven doth lie,
And evermore hath been a god,
Since Mars and she played even and odd.

On crimson wings of passionate desire
I traversed gardens of a tropic clime
To pluck love's strangest blossoms, and my lyre
Tuning, I caught each heart-throb in a rhyme.

But now thy lashes burn me, and my head
Is all confused with bitter love of thee;
Yet never have I sung thy praise, or said
How very pleasant was thy love to me.

I hush the songs that rise in me by day,
That rise by day and in the depth of night,
Lest—as a tiny bird that flies away
By some child's laughter taken with affright—

The heavy gang-chains clatter, and the boat
Groans grievously like to some stricken knight,
A sudden yearning rises in my throat,
And unshed tears half veil you from my sight.

Your love was like an incense-bearing vase
That I have shattered, playing carelessly,
Seeing that dearer than my Lady's grace
The lay of sainted poets was to me.

As we have loved, so let us part from love,
And I shall walk into the outer night
Singing, at heart the sweet remembrance of
Those violet-scented hours of delight.

Right true it is that once love's bacchanal
Had spent itself, and the devouring sea
Of passion slept, that unrelentingly
I heaped upon you bitterness, and all
That sears the heart and kills it, yea the gall
Poured down your throat, until you looked at me
With sad wan smile that was a silent plea,
Craving deliverance from the cruel thrall.

Right true it is I harass you with fears,
With sudden mood, indifference, sharp surprise:
I love you best. O sweetest, when the tears
Moisten the perfect crystal of your eyes,

A WAY , away, ghost of my dead desire,
Stir not again the ashes in my breast,
Of all my loves I had made one great fire,
And burned thine image even as the rest!

Now from his grave Love casts the covering,
And once again there rises through the night,
Like sudden water from a perished spring,
The murdered music of my slain delight!

I HAVE sought Love, and sought him everywhere;
Once in a wood I saw his gleaming hair
Flash from afar, but drawing nearer found
A startled satyr leaping from his lair.

And canst thou have forgotten wholly
How long thy heart was mine, mine solely?
That small heart so sweet, and so false, and so wee,
Nought sweeter, nought falser could ever be.

Canst thou have forgotten the love and anguish
Wherewith my heart oppressed did languish?
I know not if love was greater than care,
I only know how great both were.

Yes, thou art wretched, and all grudge departs.
O Love, we cannot 'scape from wretchedness.
Till Death himself shall break our stricken hearts,
O Love, we cannot 'scape from wretchedness.

The mockery on thy lip, I see it well;
I see defiance flashing from thine eye;
I see the pride which makes thy bosom swell—
Yet art thou wretched, wretched even as I.

But pain will twitch the lip unseen of all;
In that proud bosom hidden wounds do lie;
That eye is dimmed by tears that dare not fall—
O Love, we must be wretched—till we die.