POEM: ODE

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    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 m<tt></tt>y senses yielded.

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

    They to the be<mark>9９liｂ?</mark>amy su, 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.

    Turned a<samp></samp>new, by your means, Unto the flower that aye turns, As you, alas! my sun bends.

    Thus do I fall to rise thus; Thus do I die to live thus; ged to a ge<s></s>, I ge not.

    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.

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