The other two, slight air, and purging fire
Are both with thee, wherever I abide;
The first my thought, the other my desire,
These present-absent with swift motion slide.
For when these quicker elements are gone
In tender embassy of love to thee,
My life, being made of four, with two alone
Sinks down to death, oppress’d with melancholy;
Until life’s composition be recur’d
By those swift messengers return’d from thee,
Who even but now come back again, assur’d,
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me:
This told, I joy; but then no longer glad,
I send them back again, and straight grow sad.
In plain English
You have two of the four elements that make me human: air (my thoughts) and fire (my desire). Wherever you are, they go to you, leaving me here with only earth and water—body and tears. These swift parts of me shuttle back and forth between us, present to you but absent from me.
When they're gone, I'm incomplete. Left with only the heavy, sluggish elements, I sink into despair and feel half-dead. I can't recover until they return from you with news of your well-being, bringing my life back into balance.
The moment I hear you're fine, I'm happy again. But the joy doesn't last. I send those swift messengers—my thoughts and desires—right back to you, and immediately I'm miserable once more, incomplete and waiting.
