WHEN I too sweet an ardour press Upon my saint's condition, So pitiful is her distress, I straight am all contrition. If suddenly within me move The angels of temptation, She tells me lust is lack of love And weeps for my salvation. So in the difference of kind Our young delight must smother -- O Love, some sweet conversion find At least of one or t'other. Hereafter my desires be cold With saints and gospel-spinners, Or let the time in her behold Its paragon of sinners. |