Luis Vaz de Camoes -Portuguese poet -1500ish Sonnet 81 Love is a fire whose flame doth burn unseen A wound whose aching smart we do not feel; Contentment discontent with its own weal; A teasing pain, though neither deep nor keen: It is not liking more than liking een; Wandering alone midst crowds that seem unreal; Not to content ones self with Heavens own seal; A care that only gain by loss doth mean: Tis to be captured with ones own consent; The victor to the vanquished here must serve; Keep faith with one who on our death is bent: How can its fickle favour eer preserve In human hearts consistence of intent, Since to itself contrarious Love doth swerve?
Posted on: Mon, 18 Aug 2014 22:44:31 +0000
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