XLIII
Tell me of love, sweet Love, who is thy sire,
Or if thou mortal or immortal be?
Some say thou art begotten by desire,
Nourished with hope, and fed with fantasy,
Engendered by a heavenly goddess' eye,
Lurking most sweetly in an angel's face.
Others, that beauty thee doth deify;—
O sovereign beauty, full of power and grace!—
But I must be absurd all this denying,
Because the fairest fair alive ne'er knew thee.
Now, Cupid, comes thy godhead to the trying;
'Twas she alone—such is her power—that slew me;
She shall be Love, and thou a foolish boy,
Whose virtue proves thy power is but a toy.
