Sonnet CXXIV:
I do not love thee! What vile act of mine
Has given my loyal heart that patent lie?
Or wilt thou boast the precious love, which I
Lay at thy feet, compares no way with thine?
Then trample on it, for the god’s design
Will glow through dust; or Heaven will purify
The pearl with cleansing dewdrops by and by;
Or all obscured, within itself 'twill shine.
I grant myself no fitting mate for thee,
Thou radiant creature, gilding my dim clay
With morning sunlight, and I cannot say
What wrought thy miracle of love for me:
But loving thee is nothing but to see,
To touch, to taste, and bear the sense away.
