Sonnet LXXIII. Being myself captivéd here in care

Edmund Spenser (1552?–1599)

BEING myself captivéd here in care,

My heart, whom none with servile bands can tie,

But the fair tresses of your golden hair,

Breaking his prison, forth to you doth fly.

Like as a bird, that in one’s hand doth spy

Desired food, to it doth make his flight:

Even so my heart, that wont on your fair eye

To feed his fill, flies back unto your sight.

Do you him take, and in your bosom bright

Gently encage, that he may be your thrall:

Perhaps he there may learn, with rare delight,

To sing your name and praises over all:

That it hereafter may you not repent,

Him lodging in your bosom to have lent.