Sonnet Cxxiii:

I do not love her! So my Lady says. I, ah! so humble with my many years, And withered eyes, that cannot show the tears Which grace the morning of her dewy days. Have pity! If the long and dusty ways Which I have plodded on, from hopes to fears, Have worn me out, and left us hardly peers, And dimmed my feelings in their poor displays. I cannot storm or fondle as a boy; Thought shakes his finger when my passions start To play the antics of a hero's part. I cannot make thee goddess now, now toy; I can but touch thee with a solemn joy, And fold thee gravely to my quiet heart.