With keen desire to see what the fine swell

With keen desire to see what the fine swell Of thy white bosom in its core keeps shrined, If the interior graces of the mind Its outward shape and loveliness excel, I have my sight fixed on it; but the spell Of its voluptuous beauty holds mine eyes In such enchantment, that their curious spies Pass not to mark the spirit in its cell, And thus stay weeping at the portal, made To grieve me by that hiding hand which even Holds its own bosom's beauty unforgiven; So I behold my hope to death betrayed, And love's sharp lances, rarely known to fail, Serve not to pierce beyond its muslin mail.