Sonnet XIII. From Petrarch

OH! place me where the burning moon
Forbids the wither'd flower to blow;
Or place me in the frigid zone,
On mountains of eternal snow:
Let me pursue the steps of Fame,
Or Poverty's more tranquil road;
Let youth's warm tide my veins inflame,
Or sixty winters chill my blood:
Though my fond soul to Heaven were flown,
Or though on earth 'tis doom'd to pine,
Prisoner or free--obscure or known,
My heart, oh Laura! still is thine.
Whate'er my destiny may be,
That faithful heart still burns for thee!