So high above my fortunes sits my heart
That ‘times I fear the truth is something less.
For why would Heaven such a life impart
To feckless I? Such worthless clay undress’d
If, chance, you trust not my unfit acclaims
Still better, modesty becomes you well.
Moreover, suitors to thy love do aim
At targets near intangible as hell.
I pray that I shall ever deem it wise
To e’er thy ardor hold in such esteem
That never would I dare forget thine eyes,
Nor Cupid’s favor, which doth grant this dream.
For thou, sweet angel, I should perish straight.
If ever you did look on me with hate.