Iii

Of the birth of his love

Fly low, dear love, thy sun dost thou not see? Take heed, do not so near his rays aspire; Lest, for thy pride, inflamed with wreakful ire, It burn thy wings, as it hath burned me. Thou haply sayst thy wings immortal be, And so cannot consumed be with fire; And one is hope, the other is desire, And that the heavens bestowed them both on thee. A muse's words made thee with hope to fly, An angel's face desire hath begot, Thyself engendered by a goddess' eye; Yet for all this, immortal thou art not. Of heavenly eye though thou begotten art, Yet art thou born but of a mortal heart.