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 reserved; 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.

To the tune of a Neapolitan song, which beginneth, "No, no, no, no."

No, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe, Although with cruel fire, First thrown on my desire, She sacks my rendered sprite; For so fair a flame embraces All the places, Where that heat of all heats springeth, That it bringeth To my dying heart some pleasure, Since his treasure Burneth bright in fairest light. No, no, no, no.