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Who glazed with crystal gate the glowing roses

That flame through water which their hue encloses.

‘O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies

In the small orb of one particular tear!

But with the inundation of the eyes

What rocky heart to water will not wear?

What breast so cold that is not warmèd here?

O cleft effect! Cold modesty, hot wrath,

Both fire from hence and chill extincture hath.

‘For lo, his passion, but an art of craft,

Even there resolved my reason into tears.

There my white stole of chastity I daffed,

Shook off my sober guards and civil fears;

Appear to him as he to me appears,

All melting, though our drops this diff’rence bore:

His poisoned me, and mine did him restore.

‘In him a plenitude of subtle matter,

Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives,

Of burning blushes or of weeping water,

Or swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves,

In either’s aptness, as it best deceives,

To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes,

Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows,

‘That not a heart which in his level came

Could scape the hail of his all-hurting aim,

Showing fair nature is both kind and tame,

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