A Lover'S Maze

True are my thoughts, my thoughts that are untrue, Blind are my eyes, my eyes that are not blind, New is my love, my love that is not new, Kind is that fair, that fair that is not kind. Thus eyes and thoughts, that fairest fair, my love, Blind and untrue, unkind, unconstant prove.

True are my thoughts because they never flit, Untrue my thoughts because they me betrayed; Blind are my eyes because in clouds I sit, Not blind my eyes because I looks obeyed. Thus eyes and thoughts, my dearest fair may view In sight, in love, not blind, nor yet untrue.

New is my love because it never dies, Old is my love because it ever lives; Kind is that fair because it hate denies, Unkind that fair because no hope it gives. Thus new my love, and still that fair unkind, Renews my love, and I no favour find.

Sweet are my dreams, my dreams that are not sweet, Long are the nights, the nights that are not long, Meet are the pangs, these pangs that are unmeet, Wronged is my heart, my heart that hath no wrong. Thus dreams, and night, my heart, my pangs, and all In taste, in length, conspire to work my fall.

Sweet are my dreams because my love they show, Unsweet my dreams because but dreams they are; Long are the nights because no help I know, Meet are the nights because they end my care. Thus dreams and nights wherein my love take sport, Are sweet, unsweet, are long, and yet too short.

Meet are my pangs because I was too bold, Unmeet my pangs because I loved so well; Wronged was my heart because my grief it told, Not wronged. For why? My grief it could not tell. Thus you my love unkindly cause this smart, That will not love to ease my pangs and heart.

Proud is her look, her look that is not proud, Done all my days, my days that are not done, Loud are my sighs, my sighs that are not loud, Begun my death, my death not yet begun. Thus looks and days and sighs and death might move So kind, so fair, to give consent to love.

Proud is her look because she scorns to see, Not proud her look for none dare say so much; Done are my days because they hapless be, Not done my days because I wish them such. Thus looks and days increase this loving strife. Not proud, nor done, nor dead, nor giving life.

Loud are my sighs because they pierce the sky, Not loud my sighs because they are not heard; My death begun because I artless cry, But not begun because I am debarred. Thus sighs and death my heart no comfort give; Both life deny, and both do make me live.

Bold are her smiles, her smiles that are not bold, Wise are her words, those words that are not wise, Cold are her lips, those lips that are not cold, Ice are those hands, those hands that are not ice. Thus smiles and words, her lips, her hands, and she, Bold, wise, cold, ice, love's cruel torments be.

Bold are her smiles, because they anger slay, Not bold her smiles because they blush so oft; Wise are her words because they wonders say, Not wise her words because they are not soft. Thus smiles and words, so cruel and so bold, So blushing wise, my thoughts in prison hold.

Cold are her lips because they breathe no heat, Not cold her lips because my heart they burn; Ice are her hands because the snow's so great, Not ice her hands that all to ashes turn. Thus lips and hands cold ice my sorrow brew; Hands, warm white snow and lips cold cherry-red.

Small was her waist, the waist that was not small, Gold was her hair, the hair that was not gold, Tall was her shape, the shape that was not tall; Folding the arms, the arms that did not fold. Thus hair and shape, those folding arms and waist, Did make me love, and loving made me waste.

Small was her waist, because I could it span, Not small her waist because she wanted all; Gold was her hair because a crown it wan, Not gold her hair because it was more pale. Thus smallest waist, the greatest waste doth make, And finest hair most fast a lover take.

Tall was her shape because she touched the sky, Not tall her shape because she comely was; Folding her arms because she hearts could tie, Not folded arms because all bands they pass. Thus shape and arms with love my heart did ply, That hers I am, and must be till I die.

Sad was her joy, her joy that was not sad, Short was her stay, her stay that was not short, Glad was her speech, her speech that was not glad, Sporting those toys, those toys that were not sport. Thus was my heart with joy, speech, toys and stay, Possessed with love, and so stol'n quite away.

Sad was her joy because she did respect, Not sad her joy because her joy she had, Short was her stay because to small effect, Long was her stay because I was so sad. Thus joy and stay, both crossed a lover's sport, The one was sad, the other too too short.

Glad was her speech because she spake her mind, Not glad her speech because afraid to speak; Sporting her toys because my love was kind, Not toys in sport because my heart they break. Thus speech and toys my love began in jest; Sweet, yield to love, and make thy servant blest.

Tread you the maze, sweet love, that I have run, Mark but the steps which I imprinted have; End but your love whereas my thoughts begun; So shall I joy and you a servant have. If not, sweet love, then this my suit deny; So shall you live, and so your servant die.