LXXXIX
LET not the measure of my love make thine
Aught else but as it should be, true and sweet,
Fair youth, who first thy sweetheart’s eye shall meet,
Though thou mayst read the tragedy of mine.
Oh, in thy heart make ready Cupid’s shrine.
Prepare thy lips, that shall thy mistress greet,
For kisses that denial may defeat,
And on Love’s altar pour Love’s sacred wine.
Let myrtle crown thy brow, lest, like my fate,
Thou mayst find poison mingled in thy veins.
Make lasting thine embrace, ere ’tis too late,
And worms creep in, and mould leave deathly stains.
Then may youth’s sunshine warm thy chosen mate;
For nought so sweet as love through life remains.