NOR love, nor fate dare I accuse, For that my love doth me refuse: But O, mine own unworthiness, That durst presume so great a bliss! Too mickle 'twere for me to love A man so like the Gods above, With angels face, and Saint-like voice, 'Tis too divine for human choice. But had I wisely given my heart, For to have loved him but in part: As only to enjoy his face. Or any one peculiar grace; As foot, or hand, or lip, or eye: Then had I lived where now I die. But I, presuming all to choose, Am now condemnèd all to lose. You rural Gods that guard the swains, And punish all unjust disdains; O do not censure him for this, It was my error, and not his. This only boon of you I'll crave, To fix these lines upon my grave: Like Icarus, I soared too high, For which offence I pine, I die. |