Poem XXX

1Thee I choose, of all the world, alone;Wilt thou suffer me to sit in grief?

2My heart is as a pen in thy hand,Thou art the cause if I am glad or melancholy.

3Save what thou willest, what will have I?Save what thou showest, what do I see?

4Thou mak’st grow out of me now a thorn and now a rose;Now I smell roses and now pull thorns.

5If thou keep’st me that, that I am;If thou would’st have me this, I am this.

6In the vessel where thou givest colour to the soulWho am I, what is my love and hate?

7Thou wert first, and last thou shalt be;Make my last better than my first.