Book 1 — VIII OMNIA VINCIT

Fain would I change that note To which fond Love hath charm'd me Long long to sing by rote, Fancying that that harm'd 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!