The Self Banished.

IT is not that I love you less
Than when before your feet I lay:
But to prevent the sad encrease
Of hopeless Love, I keep away.

In vain (alas!) for every thing
Which I have known belong to you,
Your Form does to my Fancy bring,
And makes my old wounds bleed anew.

Who in the Spring from the new Sun,
Already has a Fever got,
Too late begins those shafts to shun,
Which Phoebus through his veins has shot;

Too late he would the pain asswage,
And to thick shadows does retire;
About with him he bears the rage,
And in his tainted bloud the Fire.

But vow'd I have, and never must
Your banisht servant trouble you;
For if I break, you may mistrust
The vow I made to love you too.