The self-banished

It is not that I love you less

Than when before your feet I lay:

But to prevent the sad increase

Of hopeless love, I keep away.

In vain! (alas!) for ev'ry thing

Which I have known belong

to you,

Your form does to my fancy bring,

And makes my old wounds bleed anew.

Who in the Spring from the new Sun

Already has a fever got,

Too late begins those shafts to shun,

Which Phoebus through his veins has shot.

Too late he would the pain assuage,

And to shadows thick he doth retire;

About with him he bears the rage,

And in his tainted blood the fire.

But vow'd I have, and never must

Your banish'd servant trouble you;

For if I break, you may distrust

The vow I made to love you, too.