CXXV

The moon hath touched my lady's restless brain:
She babbles wildly; calls my love a thing
Base with the coiner's mark and hollow ring--
An ill-played masque whose falsehood is too plain.
Ah! fairest conscience, I shall not complain,
Hot I, whose every memory is a sting,
Whose only merit is the love you fling
Around a heart more fit for your disdain.
Scorn, if thou wilt, the homage I bestow,
The feeble twitter which my sonnets make,
The worship rising from a thing thus low;
Yet guard that truth thou'st sworn should never shake,
That purer love of which thou'st boasted so,
And love me only for thy own love's sake.