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XXIII.
As
an unperfect actor on the stage
Who with his fear is
put besides his part,
Or some fierce thing replete
with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance
weakens his own heart.
So I, for fear of trust,
forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
O,
let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers
of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love and look
for recompense
More than that tongue that more hath
more express'd.
O, learn to read what silent love
hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine
wit.
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