Viii

Unhappy day, unhappy month and season, When first proud love, my joys away adjourning, Poured into mine eye to her eye turning A deadly juice, unto my green thought's reason. Prisoner I am unto the eye I gaze on; Eternally my love's flame is in burning; A mortal shaft still wounds me in my mourning; Thus prisoned, burnt and slain, the spirit, soul and reason. What tides me then since these pains which annoy me, In my despair are evermore increasing? The more I love, less is my pain's releasing; That cursed be the fortune which destroys me, The hour, the month, the season, and the cause, When love first made me thrall to lovers' laws.