And therefore if to love can be desert, 
I am not all unworthy. Cheeks as pale 
As these you see, and trembling knees that fail 
To bear the burden of a heavy heart,-- 
This weary minstrel-life that once was girt 
To climb Aornus, and can scarce avail 
To pipe now 'gainst the valley nightingale 
A melancholy music,--why advert 
To these things? O Belovèd, it is plain 
I am not of thy worth nor for thy place! 
And yet, because I love thee, I obtain 
From that same love this vindicating grace, 
To live on still in love, and yet in vain,-- 
To bless thee, yet renounce thee to thy face.