Strona 285 z 1116

Heal then my malady, for thou * Art malady and remedy! But she

whose cure is in thy hand * Shall ne'er be free of bane and

blight; Burn me those eyne that radiance rain * Slay me the

swords of phantasy; How many hath the sword of Love * Laid low,

their high degree despite? Yet will I never cease to pine * Nor

to oblivion will I flee. Love is my health, my faith, my joy *

Public and private, wrong or right. O happy eyes that sight thy

charms * That gaze upon thee at their gree! Yea, of my purest

wish and will * The slave of Love I'll aye be hight."