Madrigal 19. Thy love’s conceits are wound about mine heart!

Barnabe Barnes (1569?–1609)

THY love’s conceits are wound about mine heart!

Thy love itself within mine heart, a wound!

Thy torches all a row stick,

Which thy sweet grace about mine heart hath bound!

There, gleaming arrows stick in every part,

Which unto my marrow prick.

Thy beauty’s fancy to mine heart is thrall;

Mine heart, thy beauty’s thrall is found!

And thou mine heart a Bulwark art!

Conquered by Beauty! battered to the ground!

And yet though conquered will not yield at all.

For in that conflict, though I fall,

Yet I myself a conqueror repute

In fight continual, like victorious mart

Yet ever yield, as ever overthrown.

To be, still, prisoner! is my suit.

I will be, still, thy captive known!

Such pleasing Servitude

Victorious Conquest is, and Fortitude!