LXVI.
And do I see some cause a hope to feed?
Or doth the tedious burden of long woe
In weakened minds, quick apprehending breed
Of every image, which may comfort show?
I cannot brag of word, much less of deed;
Fortune's wheel's still with me in one sort slow;
My wealth no more, and no whit less my need:
Desire still on the stilts of fear doth go.
And yet amid all fears, a hope there is
Stolen to my heart, since last fair night (nay, day!)
STELLA's eyes sent to me the beams of bliss;
Looking on me, while I lookt other way:
But when mine eyes back to their heaven did move;
They fled with blush, which guilty seemed of love.
LXVII.
Hope! Art thou true, or dost thou flatter me?
Doth STELLA now begin with piteous eye,
The ruins of her conquest to espy?
Will she take time, before all wracked be?
Her eye's speech is translated thus by thee:
But fail'st thou not in phrase so heavenly high?
Look on again! the fair text better try!
What blushing notes dost thou in margin see?
What sighs stolen out, or killed before full born?
Hast thou found such, and such like arguments?
Or art thou else to comfort me foresworn?
Well! how so thou interpret their contents:
I am resolved thy error to maintain;
Rather than by more truth to get more pain.
