CXLI

What sorry mark of nature can there be,
That stamps me false before thy partial sight,
And clouds the highest peaks of love's delight
With moody doubt and gloomy fantasy?
I do not dare to question thy decree;
I must believe my truth to be as slight
As any cheat's; thy judgment is so right,
So sad, so filled with tender charity!
I own my falsehood, if thou'lt have it so;
How great, alas, to others it has been,
None so completely as thyself can know.
If for thy sake I acted out the scene;
Feigned, cozened, lied, to hide our love from show,
Art thou the one to call my soul unclean?