Led by the pow’r of grief, to wailings brought
By false conceit of change fall’n on my part,
I seek for some small ease by lines which, bought,
Increase the pain; grief is not cured by art:
Ah! how unkindness moves within the heart
Which still is true, and free from changing thought;
What unknown woe it breeds, what endless smart
With ceaseless tears, which causelessly are wrought.
It makes me now to shun all shining light,
And seek for blackest clouds me light to give, [10]
Which to all others, only darkness drive:
They on me shine, for sun disdains my sight.
Yet though I dark do live, I triumph may;
Unkindness nor this wrong shall love allay.
When last I saw thee, I did not thee see,
It was thine image, which in my thoughts lay
So lively figured, as no time’s delay
Could suffer me in heart to parted be;
And sleep so favourable is to me,
As not let thy loved remembrance stray,
Lest that I, waking, might have cause to say
There was one minute found to forget thee;
Then since my faith is such, so kind my sleep
That gladly thee presents into my thought: [10]
And still true-lover-like, thy face doth keep,
So as some pleasure shadow-like is wrought.
Pity my loving, nay, of conscience give
Reward to me in whom thy self doth live.
Take heed mine eyes, how you your looks do cast,
Lest they betray my heart’s most secret thought;
Be true unto your selves, for nothing’s bought
More dear than doubt, which brings a lover’s fast.
Catch you all watching eyes ere they be past,
Or take yours, fixed where your best love hath sought
The pride of your desires; let them be taught
Their faults, for shame they could no truer last.
Then look, and look with joy, for conquest won
Of those that searched your hurt in double kind; [10]
So you kept safe, let them themselves look blind,
Watch, gaze, and mark, till they to madness run;
While you, mine eyes, enjoy full sight of love,
Contented that such happinesses move.
False hope, which feeds but to destroy, and spill
What it first breeds; unnatural to the birth
Of thine own womb; conceiving but to kill,
And plenty gives to make the greater dearth;
So tyrants do who, falsely ruling earth,
Outwardly grace them, and with profit’s fill
Advance those, who appointed are to death,
To make their greater fall to please their will.
Thus shadow they their wicked vile intent,
Colouring evil with a show of good, [10]
While in fair shows their malice so is spent;
Hope kills the heart, and tyrants shed the blood.
For hope deluding brings us to the pride
Of our desires, the farther down to slide.
My pain, still smothered in my grieved breast,
Seeks for some ease, yet cannot passage find
To be discharged of this unwelcome guest;
When most I strive, more fast his burdens bind:
Like to a ship on Goodwins cast by wind,
The more she strives, more deep in sand is pressed
Till she be lost; so am I, in this kind,
Sunk, and devoured, and swallowed by unrest,
Lost, shipwrecked, spoiled, debarred of smallest hope,
Nothing of pleasure left; save thoughts have scope [10]
Which wander may: Go then, my thoughts, and cry
Hope’s perished; Love tempest-beaten; Joy lost.
Killing despair hath all these blessings crossed,
Yet faith still cries, Love will not falsify.
No time, no room, no thought, or writing can
Give rest, or quiet to my loving heart,
Nor can my memory or fancy scan
The measure of my still renewing smart,
Yet would I not, dear Love, thou should’st depart,
But let my passions as they first began
Rule, wound, and please; it is thy choicest art
To give disquiet, which seems ease to man;
When all alone, I think upon thy pain,
How thou dost travail our best selves to gain, [10]
Then hourly thy lessons I do learn,
Think on thy glory, which shall still ascend
Until the world come to a final end,
And then shall we thy lasting pow’r discern.