Love, born in Greece, of late fled from his native place,
Forc’d by a tedious proof, that Turkish harden’d heart
Is no fit mark to pierce with his fine pointed dart,
And pleas’d with our soft peace, stayed here his flying race.
But finding these north climes do coldly him embrace,
Not used to frozen clips, he strave to find some part
Where with most ease and warmth he might employ his art:
At length he perch’d himself in Stella’s joyful face,
Whose fair skin, beamy eyes, like morning sun on snow,
Deceiv’d the quaking boy, who thought from so pure light
Effects of lively heat must needs in nature grow.
But she most fair, most cold, made him thence take his flight
To my close heart, where while some firebrands he did lay,
He burnt un’wares his wings, and cannot fly away.
Leave a Reply