LOVE, he is nearer (though the moralist Of rule and line cry shame on me), more near To thee and to the heart of thee, be't wist, Who sins against thee even for the dear Lack that he hath of thee; than who, chill-wrapt In thy light-thought-on customed livery, Keeps all thy laws with formal service apt, Save that great law to tremble and to be Shook to his heart-strings if there do but pass The rumour of thy pinions. Such one is Thy varlet, guerdoned with the daily mass That feed on thy remainder-meats of bliss. More hath he of thy bosom, whose slips of grace Fell through despair of thy close-gracious face. |