Ben Jonson (1572–1637)

I LOVE, and he loves me again,

Yet dare I not tell who;

For if the nymphs should know my swain,

I fear they’d love him too;

Yet if he be not known,

The pleasure is as good as none,

For that’s a narrow joy is but our own.

I’ll tell, that if they be not glad,

They may not envy me;

But then if I grow jealous mad

And of them pitied be,

It were a plague ’bove scorn;

And yet it cannot be forborne

Unless my heart would, as my thought, be torn.

He is, if they can find him, fair

And fresh, and fragrant too,

As summer’s sky or purgèd air,

And looks as lilies do

That are this morning blown:

Yet, yet I doubt he is not known,

And fear much more that more of him be shown.

But he hath eyes so round and bright,

As make away my doubt,

Where Love may all his torches light,

Though Hate had put them out;

But then t’ increase my fears

What nymph soe’er his voice but hears

Will be my rival, though she have but ears.

I’ll tell no more, and yet I love,

And he loves me; yet no

One unbecoming thought doth move

From either heart I know;

But so exempt from blame

As it would be to each a fame,

If love or fear would let me tell his name.