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XXIII
The phœnix fair which rich Arabia breeds,
When wasting time expires her tragedy,
No more on Phœbus' radiant rays she feeds,
But heapeth up great store of spicery;
And on a lofty towering cedar tree,
With heavenly substance she herself consumes,
From whence she young again appears to be,
Out of the cinders of her peerless plumes.
So I which long have frièd in love's flame,
The fire not made of spice but sighs and tears,
Revive again in hope disdain to shame,
And put to flight the author of my fears.
Her eyes revive decaying life in me,
Though they augmenters of my thraldom be.
