Unable to dream according to this place —
To haste, to slack, my pace more or less,
Be sign of love, then do I love again.
If you ask me whom I love —
Her that did not set our country in a roar.
She from myself now has me in her grace.
She has in hand my wit, my will, my pace.
My heart alone is worthy she does stay.
Without whose help, do I live a day.
They flee from me that sometimes did me seek,
I have seen them gentle, tame, and slight —
If in this world there be more woe, than I have in my heart.
marchsparrows 