XXXV
Reading edition
WHAT fault within me dost thou cultivate? What still reject, though I assure my heart That I am all thine own, and not in part The man thou dost possess and captivate? Still, while I thank the gods, I would berate The irony of nature that doth start In me the wound that Cupid’s fiery dart Hath caused to flow, and mourn it, now too late. Why must the mistress of emotion give To one a portion of divine desire, And to another an unending flow Of love’s untempered thought, that cannot live, Save in some reservoir, that must inspire The whole of thy fair being love to know?