 | Poems (1914) |  |
Poesie X. My sorrow is ioy.
Sowre is the sweet that sorrow doth mainetaine,
Yet sorrow's good, that yeildeth mickle ioy,
True ioy he hath, that can from ioy refrayne.
Which haruest's still the fruites of deepe annoy:
Yet I enthraulde in blind Cvpidos snare,
With fond conceyte in sorrows ioy I faire.
Yet sorrow's good, that yeildeth mickle ioy,
True ioy he hath, that can from ioy refrayne.
Which haruest's still the fruites of deepe annoy:
Yet I enthraulde in blind Cvpidos snare,
With fond conceyte in sorrows ioy I faire.
58
Fortun's my ioy, which sorrow still doth yeild,
Her frowne I count a fauour to my soule;
Sorrow doth sway, and ioy hath lost the field,
Yet fame in minde doth often ioy enro'le:
But when I thinke for whom I beare this smart,
It yeilds new ioy vnto my carefull hart.
Her frowne I count a fauour to my soule;
Sorrow doth sway, and ioy hath lost the field,
Yet fame in minde doth often ioy enro'le:
But when I thinke for whom I beare this smart,
It yeilds new ioy vnto my carefull hart.
| Poems (1914) | |