XXXII

Let not thy bosom, to my foes allied,

Insult my sorrow with this coat of mail,

When for thy strong defence, if love assail,

Thou hast the world, thy virtue, and my pride.

But if thine own dear eyes I see beside

Sharpened against me, then my strength will fail,

Abandoning sail and rudder to the gale

For thy sweet sake alone so long defied.

If I am poor, in death how rich and brave

Will seem my spirit with the love it gave;

If I am sad, I shall seem happy then.

Be mine, be mine in God and in the grave,

Since naught but chance and the insensate wave

Divides us, and the wagging tongue of men.