 | The Tragicall Death of Sophonisba
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6. Sonet.
[Still must I grone, still must I sigh, still mourne]
Still must I grone, still must I sigh, still mourne,
And cannot grones, nor sighes, nor teares haue place,
To make faire Cælia one sweete smile returne,
Or at the least to shew some signe of grace?
Ah! who would say that one so faire of face,
So rare of beauty, so diuine in all,
Disdain'd to pitty one in such a case,
And one poore soule who leaues her beauties thral?
Still must I breath those grieuous grones in vaine:
Stil must my sighs euanish in the ayre,
Still must those teares be spent in waste I straine,
Stil must my passions all increase my care.
Then gentle death come and dissolue my paine,
Since sighes, teares, grones and passions bred disdaine.
| The Tragicall Death of Sophonisba
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