XXXII.
Morpheus! the lively son of deadly SLEEP,
Witness of life to them that living die.
A prophet oft, and oft an history,
A poet eke; as humours fly and creep:
Since thou in me so sure a power dost keep,
That never I with close up sense do lie,
But by thy work, my STELLA I descry;
Teaching blind eyes both how to smile and weep.
Vouchsafe of all acquaintance this to tell!
Whence hast thou ivory, rubies, pearl and gold,
To show her skin, lips, teeth and head so well?
"Fool!" answers he, "no Indes such treasures hold:
But from thy heart, while my sire charmeth thee,
Sweet STELLA'S image I do steal to me."
XXXIII.
I might—unhappy word, O me!—I might,
And then would not, or could not see my bliss
Till now, wrapt in a most infernal night,
I find, how heavenly day, wretch! I did miss.
Heart rent thyself! thou dost thyself but right.
No lovely PARIS made thy HELEN his;
No force, no fraud robbed thee of thy delight;
No Fortune, of thy fortune author is;
But to myself, myself did give the blow;
While too much wit (forsooth!) so troubled me,
That I, respects for both our sakes must show:
And yet could not by rising morn foresee
How fair a day was near. O punisht eyes!
That I had been more foolish or more wise!
