Thus do I fall to rise thus; Thus do I die to live thus; Changed to a change, I change not.
Like to the silly Sylvan, Burned by the light he best liked, When with a fire he first met.
With violence of heavenly Beauty, tied to virtue; Reason abashed retired; Gladly my senses yielded.
They to the beamy suns went, Where, by the death of all deaths, Find to what harm they hastened.
When, to my deadly pleasure, When to my lively torment, Lady, mine eyes remained Joined, alas! to your beams.
Thus may I not be from you; Thus be my senses on you; Thus what I think is of you; Thus what I seek is in you; All what I am, it is you.
Gladly my senses yielding, Thus to betray my hearts fort, Left me devoid of all life.
Yet, yet, a life to their death, Lady you have reserved; Lady the life of all love.
Turned anew, by your means, Unto the flower that aye turns, As you, alas! my sun bends.
For though my sense be from me, And I be dead, who want sense, Yet do we both live in you.