Love's Excuse.

Dal dolcie pianto. From happy tears to woeful smiles, from peace Eternal to a brief and hollow truce, How have I fallen!—when 'tis truth we lose, Sense triumphs o'er all adverse impulses. I know not if my heart bred this disease, That still more pleasing grows with growing use; Or else thy face, thine eyes, which stole the hues And fires of Paradise—less fair than these. Thy beauty is no mortal thing; 'twas sent From heaven on high to make our earth divine: Wherefore, though wasting, burning, I'm content; For in thy sight what could I do but pine? If God himself thus rules my destiny, Who, when I die, can lay the blame on thee?