Incerto

AT once from hence my lines and I depart,

I to my soft still walks, they to my heart,

I to the nurse, they to the child of art.

Yet as a firm house, though the carpenter

Perish, doth stand; as an ambassador

Lies safe, howe’er his king be in danger;

So, though I languish, press’d with melancholy,

My verse, the strict map of my misery,

Shall live to see that, for whose want I die.

Therefore I envy them, and do repent,

That from unhappy me, things happy are sent.

Yet as a picture, or bare sacrament,

Accept these lines, and if in them there be

Merit of love, bestow that love on me.