Lucasta | ||
The Sonnet.
[No more]
I
No moreThou little winged Archer, now no more
As heretofore,
Thou maist pretend within my breast to bide,
No more,
Since Cruell Death of dearest Lyndamore
Hath me depriv'd,
I bid adieu to Love, and all the world beside.
II
Go, go;Lay by thy quiver and unbend thy Bow
Poore sillie Foe,
Thou spend'st thy shafts but at my breast in Vain,
Since Death
My heart hath with a fatall Icie Deart
Already slain,
Thou canst not ever hope to warme her wound,
Or wound it o're againe.
Lucasta | ||