XVII. Of constant love, I am the wasted fire

Robert Tofte (1561–1620)

OF constant love, I am the wasted fire;

The furious wind ’s my Lady’s angry eye:

Who whilst She kindles both, through wrathful ire,

The flame increaseth, mounting to the sky.

In midst is LOVE, half dead of grievous pain;

And, doubtful, winds about like sparkling flame.

He fears the heat: and trembles, being turned

Unto this blast; which still more sharp doth rise.

Nor is his fear in vain, when so he is burned:

For one of these must hap, in sudden wise,

Either the fire must spoil him as his prey;

Or whirling wind else blow him quite away.