Hear how my sighs are echoed of the wind; 
See how my tears are pitied by the rain; 
Feel what a flame possesséd hath my mind; 
Taste but the grief which I possess in vain. 
Then if my sighs the blustering winds surpass, 
And wat'ry tears the drops of rain exceed, 
And if no flame like mine nor is nor was, 
Nor grief like that whereon my soul doth feed, 
Relent, fair Licia, when my sighs do blow; 
Yield at my tears, that flintlike drops consume; 
Accept the flame that doth my incense show, 
Allow the grief that is my heart's perfume. 
Thus sighs and tears, flame, grief shall plead for me; 
So shall I pray, and you a goddess be.