Express, shall I, what nature, perfect, is?
Thine every fibre, doth it answer me;
And giveth, every answer, what thou wilt;
But shalt thou, my reflection, never be.
So shall my sweet surround, make perfect bliss;
Thine answer’s twist doth make mine arms surround;
And maketh gather up, and without guilt,
Again, to make this circle thus abound.
I promise then, that wheresoever this,
Our passion, taketh thee beyond the world;
Thine answer, sweetest, never to be spilt,
No matter, gathered up, where art thou hurled.
Wherever then, I pledge, that dost thou sway;
So fast, mine hold, wilt not thou twist away.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all: