Sonnet LXII
[Pg 85]
SONNET LXII.
Se bianche non son prima ambe le tempie.
THOUGH NOT SECURE AGAINST THE WILES OF LOVE, HE FEELS STRENGTH ENOUGH TO RESIST THEM.
Till silver'd o'er by age my temples grow,Where Time by slow degrees now plants his grey,Safe shall I never be, in danger's wayWhile Love still points and plies his fatal bowI fear no more his tortures and his tricks,That he will keep me further to ensnareNor ope my heart, that, from without, he thereHis poisonous and ruthless shafts may fix.No tears can now find issue from mine eyes,But the way there so well they know to win,That nothing now the pass to them denies.Though the fierce ray rekindle me within,It burns not all: her cruel and severeForm may disturb, not break my slumbers here.