John Dryden (1631–1700)

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, nor 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;

While 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.