Ane Excellent
LOVE SONNET.
|
With Imperial sweetness
|
my Princes denyes:
|
That my lips they make good
|
the report of mine eyes.
|
With rigorous silence
|
I easily see,
|
That an absolute Murder
|
is prepared for me.
|
My thoughts are rebellious,
|
and strives to make known
|
That person most glorious,
|
which I dare not own:
|
Left fearing her anger,
|
I strive to restrain,
|
Then shall I neer pity
|
nor pardon obtain.
|
Had I but the honour
|
at her feet to rehearse,
|
The number of torments,
|
with their sad increase
|
I then would be eased
|
to think that ye knew,
|
With how much contentment
|
I suffer for you.
|
My life is disastrous,
|
and this is my doom.
|
To dye for a Beauty,
|
and none most know whom:
|
For I'm so obedient,
|
this life I'le resign,
|
For since I first saw thee
|
could never call mine.
|
I wish that my body
|
were in the grave laid.
|
That my corps might rest
|
which torments have had:
|
And she who should have lov'd me,
|
might sensible be;
|
That she hath been my burial,
|
and caus'd me to die.
|
My thoughts they are suspended
|
twixt hope and despair,
|
My Joyes they are ended,
|
and sorrows repair,
|
But yet if compassion
|
with Beauty agree,
|
I have reason to hope
|
some comfort from thee.
|
My great want of comfort,
|
and fear she say nay,
|
Bears down my intention
|
and crosses me alway:
|
Yet I will essay,
|
what ever will befall;
|
For dumb men and cowards,
|
gain nothing at all.
|
O sweetest, you know then
|
my merits but small,
|
Your beauty is great,
|
and your vertue's 'bove all;
|
Your favour transcendeth,
|
as the world may see,
|
O let him not die, Love,
|
who liveth for thee.
|
|
|
|
|
|