Sonnet V. (Translated From Milton)

Lady! It cannot be, but that thine eyes
  Must be my sun, such radiance they display
  And strike me ev'n as Phoebus him, whose way
  Through torrid Libya's sandy desert lies.
Meantime, on that side steamy vapours rise
  Where most I suffer. Of what kind are they,
  New as to me they are, I cannot say,
  But deem them, in the Lover's language--sighs.
Some, though with pain, my bosom close conceals,
  Which, if in part escaping thence, they tend
  To soften thine, they coldness soon congeals.
While others to my tearful eyes ascend,
  Whence my sad nights in show'rs are ever drown'd,
  'Till my Aurora comes, her brow with roses bound.