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?