  I did not ask thy love nor tell mine own When others sought thee in thy sovereign days, For my sad heart, beholding the bright blaze Of thy great beauty, seemed to turn to stone, And on my lips that now have bolder grown, No word would form to utter thy high praise; So stricken was I in love’s conquering ways That my poor soul consumed its love alone. Vindictive time now veils thy queen-like charms To thy old champions, and they quickly leave, As grim misfortune comes to cross their arms And pluck thy colours from each coward sleeve, All fly the tilt-yard. Now to Fate’s alarms I fling my gage at last. Wilt thou believe? |
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