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XLVIII.
How careful was I, when I took my way,
Each trifle
under truest bars to thrust,
That to my use it might
unused stay
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of
trust!
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy of comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou,
best of dearest and mine only care,
Art left the prey
of every vulgar thief.
Thee have I not lock'd up in
any chest,
Save where thou art not, though I feel
thou art,
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;
And
even thence thou wilt be stol'n, I fear,
For truth
proves thievish for a prize so dear.
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