Sighing, and sadly sitting by my Love, He ask't the cause of my hearts sorrowing, Coniuring me by heavens eternall King To tell the cause which me so much did move. Compell'd: (quoth I) to thee will I confesse, Love is the cause; and only love it is That doth deprive me of my heavenly blisse. Love is the paine that doth my heart oppresse. And what is she (quoth he) whom thou do'st love? Looke in this glasse (quoth I) there shalt thou see The perfect forme of my faelicitie. When, thinking that it would strange Magique prove, He open'd it: and taking off the cover, He straight perceav'd himselfe to be my Lover. |