Sonnets, Etc, IV

Lady, thy face is written in my soul, And whensoe'er I wish to chant thy praise, On that illumined manuscript I gaze, Thou the sweet scribe art, I but read the scroll. In this dear study all my days shall roll; And though this book can ne'er the half receive Of what in thee is charming, I believe In that I see not, and thus see the whole With faith's clear eye; I but received my breath To love thee, my ill Genius shaped the rest; 'Tis now that soul's mechanic act to love thee, I love thee, owe thee more than I confessed; I gained life by thee, cruel though I prove thee; In thee I live, through thee I bleed to death.