MY LAURA wonders that, in visage pale,
I bear of Death itself, the lively show:
But if She muse at this, her musing's stale;
For this sad colour had I long ago.
The fire, close burning in my veins, doth make
That outward ashes in my face you view:
But if that She would on me pity take,
Who is the cause of this my palish hue,
This kindled heat shall die, which now doth burn;
And my first colour shall again return.