Profession of Love

O Muse of fire, that sometime didst me love,
Though oft I boast I never was untrue
To any lover, grant I must thereof
The fallacy; much meaner love than you,
For meaner looks, in lieu of you I took,
And made thee mistress for some chance occasion,
Then ever chancer, and, 'fore long, forsook
Thee. How now, by what art of honeyed suasion
Shall then thee back, O child of memory,
I win? I know no art, my former heart,
Than this that thou through love didst give to me;
And now, without thy heart, I have no art.
            Yet love me with your lyre, I implore−
            Erato, I shall love you evermore.