 |
Fain would I change that note
To which fond love hath charmed me,
Long, long to sing by rote,
Fancying that that harmed me;
Yet when this thought doth come
Love is the perfect sum
Of all delight.
I have no other choice
Either for pen or voice,
To sing or write:
O Love, they wrong thee much,
That say thy sweet is bitter,
When thy ripe fruit is such
As nothing can be sweeter.
Fair house of joy and bliss,
Where truest pleaseure is,
I do adore thee:
I know thee what thou art,
I serve thee with my heart,
And fall before thee.
Anon
|