As are the sands, fair Licia, on the shore, 
Or colored flowers, garlands of the spring, 
Or as the frosts not seen, not felt before, 
Or as the fruits that autumn forth doth bring; 
As twinkling stars, the tinsel of the night, 
Or as the fish that gallop in the seas; 
As airs each part that still escapes our sight, 
So are my sighs, controllers of my ease. 
Yet these are such as needs must have an end, 
For things finite none else hath nature done; 
Only the sighs, which from my heart I send, 
Will never cease, but where they first begun. 
Accept them, sweet, as incense due to thee 
For you immortal made them so to be.