I thought once how Theocritus had sung

But only three in all God’s universe

Unlike are we, unlike, o princely heart

Thou hast thy calling to some palace floor

I lift my heavy heart up solemnly

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand

The face of all the world is changed, I think

What can I give thee back, O liberal

Can it be right to give what I can give?

Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful enough

And therefore if to love can be desert

Indeed this very love which is my boast

And wilt thou have me fashion into speech

If thou must love me, let it be for nought

Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I wear

And yet, because thou overcomest so

My poet, thou canst touch on all the notes

I never gave a lock of hair away

The soul’s Rialto hath its merchandise

Beloved, my beloved, when I think