While that my heart an altar I did make To sacrifice desire and faith to love, The little boy his temples did forsake, And would for me now bow nor arrow move. Dews of disgrace my incense did depress, That heat went in, the heart burnt not the less. And as the man that sees his house oppressed With fire and part of his goods made a prey, Yet doth pull down the roof to save the rest, Till his loss give him light to run away, So, when I saw the bell on other sheep, I hid myself; but dreams vex them that sleep. My exile was not like the barren tree, Which bears his fruitless head up to the sky, But like the trees whose boughs o'erloaden be, And with self-riches bowed down to die; When in the night with songs, not cries, I moan, Lest more should hear what I complain of one. |