XXXII.

Beauty by his own light shines forth and wins Consent of all men to his supreme power; Who will not think so, unagreeing, sins ’Gainst love that hails each beauty of an hour: For love is only constant, when it sways With the uncertain hues, that beauty gives, Even admiration, swerving various ways, Imagines change, and otherwhere straight lives: The ficklest thing beneath the inconstant moon Is the sigh swelling from a lover’s breast; It pants, nor thinks that it must die full soon, Even by its own luxuriance opprest. Love like an o’erstrung bow, now snaps and breaks, And now, o’erwrought, relaxes, yields, and shakes.