POEM: ODE
Like to the silly Sylvan, Burned by the light he best liked, When with a fire he first met.
Gladly my senses yielding, Thus to betray my hearts fort, Left me devo99lib•netid of all life.
Thus do I fall to rise thus; Thus do I die to live thus; Changed to a change, I change not.
Thus may I not be from you; Thus be my s99lib•netenses on you; Thus what I think is of you; Thus what I seek is in you; All what I am, it is you.
Yet, yet, a life to their death, Lady you have reserved; Ladwww•99lib.nety the life of all love.
With violence of heavenly Beauty, tied to virtue; Reason abashed retired; Gladly my senses yielded.
When, to my deadly pleasure, When t九*九*藏*书*网o my lively torment, Lady, mine eyes remained Joined, alas! to your beams.
Turned anew, by your means, Unto the flower that aye turns, As you, alas! my sun bends.
They to 99lib•netthe beamy suns went, Where, by the death of all deaths, Find to what harm they hastened.
For though my sense be from me, And I be dead, who want sense, Yet do we both live in you.