Fain would I change that note To which fond love hath charmed me, Long, long to sing by rote, Fancying that that harmed me: Yet when this thought doth come, 'Love is the perfect sum Of all delight,' I have no other choice Either for pen or voice, To sing or write. O Love, they wrong thee much That say thy sweet is bitter; When thy rich fruit is such As nothing can be sweeter. Fair house of joy and bliss, Where truest pleasure is, I do adore thee; I know thee what thou art, I serve thee with my heart, And fall before thee. |