The Fair Singer

To make a final conquest of all me, Love did compose so sweet an enemy, In whom both beauties to my death agree, Joining themselves in fatal harmony; That while she with her eyes my heart does bind, She with her voice might captivate my mind.

I could have fled from one but singly fair: My disentangled soul itself might save, Breaking the curled trammels of her hair. But how should I avoid to be her slave, Whose subtle art invisibly can wreath My fetters of the very air I breath?