University of Virginia Library


293

SONNET XIII.

To the same.
[_]

Written in a fit of Sickness.

Trust me, Dear Wray, not all these three months' pain,
Though tedious seems the time in pain to wear,
Nor all those restless nights, through which in vain
I've sought for kindly sleep to lull my care;
Not all those lonely meals, and meagre fare,
Unchear'd with converse of a friendly guest;
This close confinement, barr'd from wholesome air
And exercise, of medicines the best;
Have sunk my spirits, or my soul oppress'd:
Light are these woes, and easy to be born;
If weigh'd with those, which rack'd my tortur'd breast
When my fond heart from Amoret was torn:
So true that word of Solomon I find—
“No pain so grievous as a wounded mind.”