Sonnet XI

And therefore if to love can be desert,

I am not all unworthy. Cheeks as pale

As these you see, and trembling knees that fail

To bear the burden of a heavy heart,--

This weary minstrel-life that once was girt

To climb Aornus, and can scarce avail

To pipe now gainst the valley nightingale

A melancholy music,--why advert

To these things ? O Beloved, it is plain

I am not of thy worth nor for thy place !

And yet, because I love thee, I obtain

From that same love this vindicating grace,

To live on still in love, and yet in vain,--

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