The dart, the beams, the sting, so strong I prove, Which my chief part doth pass through, parch, and tie, That of the stroke, the heat, and knot of love, Wounded, inflamed, knit to the death, I die.

Hardened and cold, far from affections snare Was once my mind, my temper, and my life; While I that sight, desire, and vow forbare, Which to avoid, quench, lose, nought boasted strife.

Yet will not I grief, ashes, thraldom change For others ease, their fruit, or free estate; So brave a shot, dear fire, and beauty strange, Bid me pierce, burn, and bind, long time and late, And in my wounds, my flames, and bonds, I find A salve, fresh air, and bright contented mind.

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