Sonnet Lxxxviii:

To be forever thus alone with thee, Thus locked and fettered in thy tender arms, Were to rob heaven of all its promised charms, And antedate my immortality. What future lot could Fate reserve for me, So free from mortal buffets or alarms That I'd not count among my grievous harms, And scorn if so we should divided be? Ah! no; Fate tears me from thy sweet embrace, That struggles hard to hold thy lover fast, And drives me forth to run the common race, That I, when life and death are overpassed, May be the object of a special grace, And find my heaven within thy arms at last.