A whirlpool my heart is, which gulps up the contents of your love,
And still is content not, but starves yet more;
That, though you all your bounty impart, I please not like a whore:
And now make you lament that you have strove.
And should you keep your contents to your self close,
And mine within me, still starve you not me,
The rather exacerbate my appetite, and make me angry –
That that which couldn’t satisfy me before, with you now goes!
But now by its longings, my heart’s stomach begins to shrink,
And its appetite to grow thin, pruned thus by our Lady Fortune;
And so with beggary gently begins attune,
And supplicates you give your love, as its within it, to drink:
For the love my heart bears is all its own,
So sits it enslaved in its own wealth, till yours gives it a crown!