Nor Love nor Fate dare I accuse
For that my love did me refuse,
But oh! Mine own unworthiness
That durst presume so mickle bliss.
It was too much for me to love
A man so like the gods above:
An angel’s shape, a saint-like voice,
Are too divine for human choice.
Oh had I wisely given my heart
For to have loved him but in part;
Sought only to enjoy his face,
Or any one peculiar grace
Of foot, of hand, of lip, or eye,—
I might have lived where now I die:
But I, presuming all to choose,
Am now condemned all to lose.
By Richard Brome