Non Posso Altra Figura. I Cannot By The Utmost Flight Of Thought Conceive Another Form Of Air Or Clay, Wherewith Against Thy Beauty To Array My Wounded Heart In Armour Fancy-Wrought: For, Lacking Thee, So Low My State Is Brought, That Love Hath Stolen All My Strength Away; Whence, When I Fain Would Halve My Griefs, They Weigh With Double Sorrow, And I Sink To Nought. Thus All In Vain My Soul To Scape Thee Flies, For Ever Faster Flies Her Beauteous Foe: From The Swift-Footed Feebly Run The Slow! Yet With His Hands Love Wipes My Weeping Eyes, Saying, This Toil Will End In Happy Cheer; What Costs The Heart So Much, Must Needs Be Dear!