XXVII. When, to my deadly pleasure

Sir Philip Sidney (1554–1586)

WHEN, to my deadly pleasure;

When, to my lively torment,

Lady! mine eyes remained

Joined, alas, to your beams.

With violence of heav’nly

Beauty tied to virtue,

Reason abash’d retired;

Gladly my senses yielded.

Gladly my senses yielding,

Thus to betray my heart’s fort;

Left me devoid of all life.

They to the beamy suns went;

Where by the death of all deaths:

Find to what harm they hastened.

Like to the silly Sylvan;

Burned by the light he best liked,

When with a fire he first met.

Yet, yet, a life to their death,

Lady! you have reservèd!

Lady, the life of all love!

For though my sense be from me

And I be dead, who want sense;

Yet do we both live in you!

Turned anew, by your means,

Unto the flower that aye turns,

As you, alas, my sun bends.

Thus do I fall to rise thus,

Thus do I die to live thus,

Changed to a change, I change not.

Thus may I not be from you!

Thus be my senses on you!

Thus what I think is of you!

Thus what I seek is in you!

All what I am, it is you!