XIX. That ivory hand, a fan most white doth hold

Robert Tofte (1561–1620)

THAT ivory hand, a fan most white doth hold;

And to the milky breast blows wind apace;

And yet is full of chilly ice most cold;

Disgrace to others, to herself a grace.

But I, who wistly mark these whiteness’ three,

Vouchsafe, sweet LOVE, this boon to grant to me!

Distil within the rolling of mine eyes,

By virtue of thy power, such hidden flame;

And let it tempered be, in such strange wise,

That, as I cast my look upon the same,

It quite may take away her cruelty!

Melt straight the ice! and fan burn suddenly!