XLIII

    Tell me of love, sweet Love, who is thy sire,
      Or if thou mortal or immortal be? 
      Some say thou art begotten by desire,
      Nourished with hope, and fed with fantasy,
    Engendered by a heavenly goddess’ eye,
      Lurking most sweetly in an angel’s face. 
      Others, that beauty thee doth deify;—­
      O sovereign beauty, full of power and grace!—­
    But I must be absurd all this denying,
      Because the fairest fair alive ne’er knew thee. 
      Now, Cupid, comes thy godhead to the trying;
      ’Twas she alone—­such is her power—­that slew me;
    She shall be Love, and thou a foolish boy,
    Whose virtue proves thy power is but a toy.

    XLIV

    No choice of change can ever change my mind;
      Choiceless my choice, the choicest choice alive;
      Wonder of women, were she not unkind,
      The pitiless of pity to deprive. 
    Yet she, the kindest creature of her kind,
      Accuseth me of self-ingratitude,
      And well she may, sith by good proof I find
      Myself had died, had she not helpful stood. 
    For when my sickness had the upper hand,
      And death began to show his awful face,
      She took great pains my pains for to withstand,
      And eased my heart that was in heavy case. 
    But cruel now, she scorneth what it craveth;
    Unkind in kindness, murdering while she saveth.

    XLV

    Mine eye bewrays the secrets of my heart,
      My heart unfolds his grief before her face;
      Her face—­bewitching pleasure of my smart!—­
      Deigns not one look of mercy and of grace. 
    My guilty eye of murder and of treason,—­
      Friendly conspirator of my decay,
      Dumb eloquence, the lover’s strongest reason!—­
      Doth weep itself for anger quite away,
    And chooseth rather not to be, than be
      Disloyal, by too well discharging duty;
      And being out, joys it no more can see
      The sugared charms of all deceiving beauty. 
    But, for the other greedily doth eye it,
    I pray you tell me, what do I get by it?

    XLVI

    So soon as peeping Lucifer, Aurora’s star,
      The sky with golden periwigs doth spangle;
      So soon as Phoebus gives us light from far,
      So soon as fowler doth the bird entangle;
    Soon as the watchful bird, clock of the morn,
      Gives intimation of the day’s appearing;
      Soon as the jolly hunter winds his horn,
      His speech and voice with custom’s echo clearing;
    Soon as the hungry lion seeks his prey
      In solitary range of pathless mountains;
      Soon as the passenger sets on his way,
      So soon as beasts resort unto the fountains;
    So soon mine eyes their office are discharging,
    And I my griefs with greater griefs enlarging.