I hope, sweet soul, to see, at my return,
The heavenly colour of your angel face,
Which is the fire and flame whereby I burn,
And never is impaired by time nor place.
Wherefore, shall als behold in me, this space,
No other change but that of hair and hue:
As for my heart, which loves in pain, but peace,
Even as it was, so shall you find it, true.
But what shall I again in you review,
But rigours, frosts, denials and disdains;
And in that face from which doth aye ensue
The streaming course of my incessant pains,
A farther fairness, with a farther pride,
Which till my death, so long with thee must bide.