When, to my deadly pleasure, When to my lively torment, Lady, mine eyes remained Joined, alas! to your beams.

With violence of heavenly Beauty, tied to virtue; Reason abashed retired; Gladly my senses yielded.

Gladly my senses yielding, Thus to betray my hearts fort, Left me devoid of all life.

They to the beamy suns went, Where, by the death of all deaths, Find to what harm they hastened.

Like to the silly Sylvan, Burned by the light he best liked, When with a fire he first met.

Yet, yet, a life to their death, Lady you have reserved; Lady the life of all love.

For though my sense be from me, And I be dead, who want sense, Yet do we both live in you.

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