The First Decade. Sonnet III. Fly low, dear love! thy sun dost thou not see?

Henry Constable (1562–1613)

FLY low, dear love! thy sun dost thou not see?

Take heed! do not so near his rays aspire!

Lest (for thy pride, inflamed with wreakful ire)

It burn thy wings, as it hath burnèd me.

Thou, haply, sayst, “Thy wings immortal be,

And so cannot consumèd be with fire:

The one is Hope, the other is Desire;

And that the heavens bestowed them both on thee.”

A Muse’s words made thee with Hope to fly;

An Angel’s face Desire hath begot;

Thyself engendered by a goddess’ eye:

Yet for all this, immortal thou art not!

Of heavenly eye though thou begotten art:

Yet art thou born but of a mortal heart!