CXLI.

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote;
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted;
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,

Nor taste, nor smell, defire to be invited

Το

any

fenfual feast with thee alone:

But my five wits nor my five fenfes can
Diffuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unfway'd the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's flave and vassal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That the that makes me fin awards me pain.