XLVIII.
Soul's joy! bend not those morning stars from me!
Where Virtue is made strong by Beauty's might,
Where Love is Chasteness, Pain doth learn Delight,
And Humbleness grows one with Majesty:
Whatever may ensue, O let me be
Co-partner of the riches of that sight!
Let not mine eyes be hell-driven from that light!
O look! O shine! O let me die and see!
For though I oft myself of them bemoan,
That through my heart their beamy darts be gone;
Whose cureless wounds, even now, most freshly bleed:
Yet since my death wound is already got;
Dear Killer! spare not thy sweet cruel shot!
A kind of grace it is, to slay with speed.
XLIX.
I, on my horse; and LOVE on me, doth try
Our horsemanships: while by strange work I prove
A horseman to my horse, a horse to LOVE;
And now man's wrongs in me poor beast! descry.
The reins wherewith my rider doth me tie
Are Humbled Thoughts, which bit of Reverence move;
Curbed in with Fear, but with gilt boss above
Of Hope, which makes it seem fair to the eye.
The wand is Will, thou Fancy saddle art,
Girt fast by Memory; and while I spur
My horse, he spurs with Sharp Desire my heart.
He sits me fast, however I do stir;
And now hath made me to his hand so right,
That in the menage myself takes delight.
