Chapter 5 No.5

Beloved, sweet, and honourable wound,

From fairest dart that love did choose,

Lofty, most beauteous and potential zeal,

That makes the soul in its own flames find weal!

What power or spell of herb or magic art

Can tear thee from the centre of my heart,

Since he, who with an ever-growing zest,

Tormenting most, yet most does make me blest?

How can I of this weight unburdened be,

If pain the cure, and joy the sore give me?

Sweet is my pain: to this world new and rare.

Eyes! ye are the bow and torches of my lord!

Double the flames and arrows in my breast,

For languishing is sweet and burning best.

Fate vexes and grieves by undesirable and unfortunate events, or because it makes the subject feel unworthy of the object, and out of proportion with the dignity of the latter, or because a perfect sympathy does not exist, or for other reasons and obstacles that arise. The object satisfies the subject, which is nourished by no other, seeks no other, is occupied by no other, and banishes every other thought. Jealousy torments, because although she is the daughter of Love, and is derived from him, and is his companion who always goes with him, and is a sign of the same, being understood as a necessary consequence wherever love is found (as may be observed of whole generations who, from the coldness of the region and lateness of development, learn little, love less, and of jealousy know nothing), yet, notwithstanding its kinship, association, and signification, jealousy comes to trouble and poisons all that it finds of beautiful and of good in Love. Therefore I said in another sonnet: