Love merits beauteous mystery at play;
As fear resounds thy face doth hate exude,
And pained virtue hath lost all hope this day,
That thunder shakes earthly disquietude.
Ever, if it be, the crimson rose dies,
Profaned in falsehood born iniquity,
Once pouring down from cobalt cloudy skies,
Bowing low defying heart’s gravity.
Love’s laws lost inherit importune grace;
And pity hath grown weak in brave reply,
Where rapture adrift thy love ne’er replace,
For repose woos as dissent doth comply.
If pretense seeks thee out my butterfly;
Let wings take flight upon this breath supply.