SO HELP ME, LOVE.
For the credit of great Love I must be brave!
For else will they take senseless leave to scoff
Who venture nought for Love, and nothing have,
And boldly boast they are the better off.
But if I show, that having caught a wound
I am content therewith, and rather choose
Wounded to own Love's service than be sound,
Free of his arm, or even emeritus;
Then men will grant that something there must be
In that immortal bondage more than shows,
And some pure convert, thinking upon me,
May turn to Love, believing ere he knows.
So help me, Love, for thine own credit's care,
And for the due recruiting of thy reign,
Help me, I say not, tranquilly to bear,
That were too much,—but patiently to feign!