Love is a fire whose flame doth burn unseen

Love is a fire whose flame doth burn unseen A wound whose aching smart we do not feel; Contentment discontent with its own weal; A teasing pain, though neither deep nor keen: It is not liking more than liking e'en; Wandering alone 'midst crowds that seem unreal; Not to content one's self with Heaven's own seal; A care that only gain by loss doth mean: 'Tis to be captured with one's own consent; The victor to the vanquished here must serve; Keep faith with one who on our death is bent: How can its fickle favour e'er preserve In human hearts consistence of intent, Since to itself contrarious Love doth swerve?