XXVII.

_NO ESCAPE FROM LOVE._

_Non posso altra figura._

I cannot by the utmost flight of thought Conceive another form of air or clay, Wherewith against thy beauty to array My wounded heart in armour fancy-wrought: For, lacking thee, so low my state is brought, That Love hath stolen all my strength away; Whence, when I fain would halve my griefs, they weigh With double sorrow, and I sink to nought. Thus all in vain my soul to scape thee flies, For ever faster flies her beauteous foe: From the swift-footed feebly run the slow! Yet with his hands Love wipes my weeping eyes, Saying, this toil will end in happy cheer; What costs the heart so much, must needs be dear!