I

When to his class the surgeon's skilful blade
Reveals the mysteries of the inner man,
So lost is science, brooding o'er the plan,
He does not feel disgusted or afraid.
Thus my poor heart is on the table laid;
Its youthful lesions you may count and scan;
Say how disease began, how far it ran,
And on what moral tissues branched and preyed
Dear Sonnets, records of my complex case,
Grudge not to man your privacy of pain,
That he may shun the poison in your vein.
O holy Love, God's agent, if man's face
Turn from thee, wise at my presumed disgrace,
I would not give my loss for all his gain.