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| HOW could I love you more? |
| I would give up |
| Even that beauty I have loved too well |
| That I might love you better. |
| Alas, how poor the gifts that lovers give |
| I can but give you of my flesh and strength, |
| I can but give you these few passing days |
| And passionate words that, since our speech began, |
| All lovers whisper in all ladies' ears. |
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| I try to think of some one lovely gift |
| No lover yet in all the world has found; |
| I think: If the cold sombre gods |
| Were hot with love as I am |
| Could they not endow you with a star |
| And fix bright youth for ever in your limbs? |
| Could they not give you all things that I lack? |
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| You should have loved a god; I am but dust. |
| Yet no god loves as loves this poor frail dust. |
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