CXLIV

    Two loves I have of comfort and despair, Which like two spirits do suggest me still： The better angel is a man right fair, The worser spirit a woman colour'd ill. To win me soon to hell, my female evil, Tempteth my better angel from my side, And would corrupt¹ my saint to be a devil, Wooing his purity with her foul² pride. And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend, Suspect I may, yet not directly tell； But being both from me, both to each friend, I guess one angel in another's hell： Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt, Till my bad angel fire my good one out.