'I dare do all that may become a man;
Who dares do more is none', said fell Macbeth.
And I shall go not a jot further than
Thou dost allow me, upon pain of death.
Say the word and my forces I retreat:
To suffer was my fated lot from start.
But if I read thy looks they do entreat
To heal the wound where an arrow did smart.
'Tis such a conundrum I put thee in;
No easy way out is to be contrived.
Think'st not thou that to think of me is sin;
Think rather a truer love has arrived.
Let Jove convince thee if my words do not;
At least I know that with honour I've fought.