Sonnet XXIV. When as my Love lay sickly in her bed

Giles Fletcher (1586?–1623)

WHEN as my Love lay sickly in her bed,

Pale Death did post, in hope to have a prey;

But she so spotless made him, that he fled:

“Unmeet to die,” he cried; and could not stay,

Back he retired, and thus the heavens he told:

“All things that are, are subject unto me;

Both towns, and men, and what the world doth hold:

But let fair LICIA still immortal be!”

The heavens did grant. A goddess she was made,

Immortal, fair, unfit to suffer change.

So now she lives, and never more shall fade.

In earth, a goddess. What can be more strange?

Then will I hope! A goddess, and so near;

She cannot choose, my sighs and prayers but hear.