R O M A
M O R E T T I
ye leaves when as those lily hands,
Which hold my life in their dead-doing might,
Shall handle you and hold in loves soft bands,
Like captives trembling at the victors sight.
And happy lines, on which with starry light,
Those lamping eyes will deign sometimes to look,
And read the sorrows of my dying sprite,
Written with tears in hearts close-bleeding book.
And happy rhymes bathed in the sacred brook
Of Helicon whence she derivèd is,
When ye behold that Angels blessèd look,
My souls long-lackèd food, my heavens bliss.
Leaves, lines, and rhymes, seek her to please alone,
Whom if ye please, I care for other none.