Love bade me welcome, yet
my soul drew back,

     
  Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-ey'd Love,
observing me grow slack

     
  From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me,
sweetly questioning

 
      If I lack'd anything.

“A guest,” I answer'd,
“worthy to be here”;

     
  Love said, “You shall be he.”

“I, the unkind, the
ungrateful? ah my dear,

     
  I cannot look on thee.”

Love took my hand and
smiling did reply,

 
      “Who made the eyes but I?”

“Truth, Lord, but I have
marr'd them; let my shame

     
  Go where it doth deserve.”

“And know you not,” says
Love, “who bore the blame?”

     
  “My dear, then I will serve.”

“You must sit down,” says
Love, “and taste my meat.”