OF constant love, I am the wasted fire;
The furious wind's my Lady's angry eye:
Who whilst She kindles both, through wrathful ire,
The flame increaseth, mounting to the sky.
In midst is LOVE, half dead of grievous pain;
And, doubtful, winds about like sparkling flame.
He fears the heat: and trembles, being turned
Unto this blast; which still more sharp doth rise.
Nor is his fear in vain, when so he is burned:
For one of these must hap, in sudden wise,
Either the fire must spoil him as his prey;
Or whirling wind else blow him quite away.