Since hopeless lover is tree thunder-blasted,
and I am warped, disbranched and beaten down,
lay not to hope the axe-blade of your frown,
hope, last resource of hearts by sorrow wasted,
Pandora's gift to man in tears that fasted,
hope is the plank to sailors, though they drown,
hope to the captive is the key of the town,
and to the beggar all he has not tasted*
And yet you are not in your seeming cruel,
preferring with your tongue's enchanted treasons
my frozen hope and dayspring to destroy*
Sweet fraud, of womankind the chiefest jewel,
that bids us see the sun and scorn his seasons,
that praises love she dares us to enjoy.

37