O, were that all! I think not on my father;And these great tears grace his remembrance moreThan those I shed for him. What was he like?I have forgot him: my imaginationCarries no favour in't but Bertram's.I am undone: there is no living, none,If Bertram be away. 'Twere all oneThat I should love a bright particular starAnd think to wed it, he is so above me:In his bright radiance and collateral lightMust I be comforted, not in his sphere.The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:The hind that would be mated by the lionMust die for love. 'Twas pretty, though plague,To see him every hour; to sit and drawHis arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,In our heart's table; heart too capableOf every line and trick of his sweet favour:But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancyMust sanctify his reliques. Who comes here?O, were that all! I think not on my father;And these great tears grace his remembrance moreThan those I shed for him. What was he like?I have forgot him: my imaginationCarries no favour in't but Bertram's.I am undone: there is no living, none,If Bertram be away. 'Twere all oneThat I should love a bright particular starAnd think to wed it, he is so above me:In his bright radiance and collateral lightMust I be comforted, not in his sphere.The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:The hind that would be mated by the lionMust die for love. 'Twas pretty, though plague,To see him every hour; to sit and drawHis arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,In our heart's table; heart too capableOf every line and trick of his sweet favour:But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancyMust sanctify his reliques. Who comes here?