Is this true love, of which the minstrels sing,
That makes me still long to embrace you so?
Or is it lust that makes my heart take wing
And yearn to follow you where’er you go?
It is not love; I really must insist,
No matter what misguided friends have said
And, yet, it is so strong I must persist.
I should forswear my heart and use my head.
It is not lust, for that slights Cupid’s dart
Which has been shot, and I will not pretend
That he has missed me, or that I will mend.
I would forsake my head and know my heart.
I swear it is not love, nor vulgar lust.
Perhaps ‘tis the unknown that haunts me thus.
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