Sonnet CCXXXV:
O gentle frenzy, too supreme delight!
O acrid sweet, most blessed sum of ills!
O cold that scorches, flaming fire that chills!
O woeful pleasure, ever in my sight!
O source of all, fair girl, whose utmost might
Yon butterfly’s faint struggles scarcely stills,
Art thou a power so far above my will’s
That I, despairing, yield the thought of flight?
Why are thy tresses so complete a chain,
That breathing o’er and o’er my own sad sighs,
I slave-like lie, a prey to selfdisdain?
Or why before me gleam those fiery eyes,
Like swords seraphic, that forbid again
All entrance to my former paradise?
