Slander me thus: that I know not love, A truth wherein I am ignorant, As if I chase a paradise, elusive, above, My knowledge of her paltry, scant. That I have too often been enamoured of superfluous passion, Above deepest desire, is a view I can support, But I too am capable of Heart's exquisite action, I call that mutual rapport, Which is a truth to which I am enamoured, devote, Thy accusations do not sully my bliss, Why my passion you chose to smote? But I still know the light of luck's kiss. My sweet entreaties? Still thine. Though you're wrong; in Love I soar divine.