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 belov?d, 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.