XXIII
Reading edition
HOW true it is that every joy we feel Carries its own full price of equal pain, And brings to us some sorrow in its train. I thought me safe from love, yet now I kneel Before thy lovely being, and conceal But little of that joy which I obtain. Still what I have seems mixed with thy disdain. How can I then unto thy soul appeal? If it is but the force of my disease That makes me over-sensitive with thee, And causes me to suffer at thy frown, Or long thy fleeting anger to appease, ’Tis difficult for my blind love to see How best with jewels thy fair head to crown!