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CXLIV.
Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which like
two spirits do suggest me still:
The better angel is
a man right fair,
The worser spirit a woman colour'd
ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would
corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity
with her foul pride.
And whether that my angel be
turn'd fiend
Suspect I may, but not directly tell;
But being both from me, both to each friend,
I guess
one angel in another's hell:
Yet this shall I ne'er
know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my
good one out.
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