Sonnets From The Portuguese XI
And therefore if to love can be desert, I am not all unworthy. Cheeks as pale As these you see, and trembling knees that fail To bear the burden of a heavy heart, This weary minstrel-life that once was girt To climb Aornus, and can scarce avail To pipe now gainst the valley nightingale A melancholy music, why advert To these things? O Belovd, it is plain I am not of thy worth nor for thy place! And yet, because I love thee, I obtain From that same love this vindicating grace To live on still in love, and yet in vain, To bless thee, yet renounce thee to thy face.
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"And therefore if to love can be desert,..."
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