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To make a
final conquest of all me,
Love did compose so sweet
an enemy,
In whom both beauties to my death agree,
Joining themselves in fatal harmony;
That while she
with her eyes my heart does bind,
She with her voice
might captivate my mind.
I could have fled from
one but singly fair:
My disentangled soul itself
might save,
Breaking the curled trammels of her hair.
But how should I avoid to be her slave,
When subtle
art invisibly can wreathe
My fetters of the very air
I breathe?
It had been easy fighting in some
plain,
Where victory might hang in equal choice,
But all resistance against her is vain,
Who has th'
advantage both of eyes and voice;
And all my forces
needs must be undone,
She having gained both the wind
and sun.
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