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Clip not, sweet love, the wings of my desire, Although it soar aloft and mount too high: But rather bear with me though I aspire, For I have wings to bear me to the sky. What though I mount, there is no sun but thee! And sith no other sun, why should I fear? Thou wilt not burn me, though thou terrify, And though thy brightness do so great appear. Dear, I seek not to batter down thy glory, Nor do I envy that thy hope increaseth; O never think thy fame doth make me sorry! For thou must live by fame when beauty ceaseth. Besides, since from one root we both did spring, Why should not I thy fame and beauty sing?