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I feed a flame within, which so torments me, That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me: 'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it, That I had rather die than once remove it.
Yet he for whom I grieve shall never know it: My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it. Not a sigh, not a tear, my pain discloses, But they fall silently, like dew on roses.
Thus, to prevent my love from being cruel, My heart's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fuel: And while I suffer this to give him quiet, My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.
On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me; Where I conceal my love no frown can fright me: To be more happy, I dare not aspire; Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher.
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