There hath never been, in world entire, spied
another love that such as our perdures,
or like the yellow oxalis it thrives,
for none but our sweet shackles are as sure.
Like sun to petal, at your visage my heart unfurls,
and thornless roots are deeper sewn with ev’ry blessed kiss.
Though sagacious now, I live a dream of more grandeur
than is credible to thought ought exist.

O’ would I that our loving rose be thorned,
that wouldst happ’ly disprove so fine a dream.
But should that dread morn break upon my lids,
I might die bereaved with the visions theived
by Cupid’s fairest temptress—
that heartless philanthropist.