If that a loyal heart and faith unfeign'd,
If a sweet languish with a chaste desire,
If hunger-starven thought so long retain'd,
Fed but with smoke, and cherished but with fire,
And if a brow with care's characters painted
Bewrays my love, with broken words half spoken
To her that sits in my thought's temple sainted,
And lays to view my vulture-gnawn heart open,
If I have done due homage to her eyes,
And had my sighs still tending on her name,
If on her love my life and honor lies,
And she th'unkindest maid still scorns the same,
Let this suffice: the world yet may see
The fault is hers, though mine the hurt must be.