With keen desire to see what the fine swell
Of thy white bosom in its core keeps shrined,
If the interior graces of the mind
Its outward shape and loveliness excel,
I have my sight fixed on it; but the spell
Of its voluptuous beauty holds mine eyes
In such enchantment, that their curious spies
Pass not to mark the spirit in its cell,
And thus stay weeping at the portal, made
To grieve me by that hiding hand which even
Holds its own bosom's beauty unforgiven;
So I behold my hope to death betrayed,
And love's sharp lances, rarely known to fail,
Serve not to pierce beyond its muslin mail.