No More Rhymes Can I Find, with Which to Praise

No more rhymes can I find, with which to praise
Your great beauty, your outstanding valour;
Or to tell the torments of my heart: the more
My woes increase, the greater my malaise.
As, buried beneath ash, a fire will glow,
But lacks the power to send forth its flame,
So, my desire within proves much the same,
Swells my pain, consumes my very marrow.
Thus, from the ill or good that comes my way,
That Love has sent, all I have gained is this:
Naught, of their power or nature, can I say.
Bright, living Sun my weakness now dismiss;
Or, Love, grant me wings, that I might display
To all what smoulders in the heart’s abyss.