 | Imaginary Sonnets |  |
63
HANS BROMIUS TO HIMSELF
(1602.)
Have I not sat for years upon this bench,
And doomed, unmoved, to gibbet or to stake
Whole scores of years, and never let them shake
My wall of law, or pass my heart's deep trench?
And doomed, unmoved, to gibbet or to stake
Whole scores of years, and never let them shake
My wall of law, or pass my heart's deep trench?
What is it, in this pallid little wench—
So slight and frail, that flame will scarcely make
One mouthful of her—that doth almost wake
Compassion—almost give my heart a wrench?
So slight and frail, that flame will scarcely make
One mouthful of her—that doth almost wake
Compassion—almost give my heart a wrench?
Yet can I doubt? She hunts for rare wood-flowers;
She strolls alone beneath the starry sky;
She sobs without a cause; she swoons for hours;
She strolls alone beneath the starry sky;
She sobs without a cause; she swoons for hours;
A causeless fever glistens in her eye:
Flame must expel the devil that devours
Her blood, and mercy must repress its cry.
Flame must expel the devil that devours
Her blood, and mercy must repress its cry.
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