 | The Poems and Sonnets of Henry Constable |  |
lxx
[Much sorrow in it selfe my love doth move]
Much sorrow in it selfe my love doth move;
More my dispaire, to love a hopelesse blisse;
My folly most, to love whom sure to misse.
Oh, helpe me but this last greefe to remove;
More my dispaire, to love a hopelesse blisse;
My folly most, to love whom sure to misse.
Oh, helpe me but this last greefe to remove;
All paines, if you commaund, it joy shall prove,
And wisedome to seeke joye; then say but this:
Because my pleasure in thy torment is,
I doe commaund thee without hope to love.
And wisedome to seeke joye; then say but this:
Because my pleasure in thy torment is,
I doe commaund thee without hope to love.
So when this thought my sorrow shall augment,
That mine owne folly did procure my paine,
Then shall I say, to give my selfe content:
Obedience onely made me love in vaine;
It was your will, and not my want of wit;
I have the paine; beare you the blame of it.
That mine owne folly did procure my paine,
Then shall I say, to give my selfe content:
Obedience onely made me love in vaine;
It was your will, and not my want of wit;
I have the paine; beare you the blame of it.
| The Poems and Sonnets of Henry Constable | |