 | The Works of Michael Drayton |  |
120
AMOUR. 43.
Why doe I speake of joy, or write of love,
When my hart is the very Den of horror,
And in my soule the paynes of hell I prove,
With all his torments and infernall terror.
When my hart is the very Den of horror,
And in my soule the paynes of hell I prove,
With all his torments and infernall terror.
Myne eyes want teares thus to bewayle my woe,
My brayne is dry with weeping all too long,
My sighes be spent with griefe and sighing so,
And I want words for to expresse my wrong.
My brayne is dry with weeping all too long,
My sighes be spent with griefe and sighing so,
And I want words for to expresse my wrong.
But still distracted in loves Lunacy,
And Bedlam like thus raving in my griefe,
Now rayle upon her hayre, now on her eye,
Now call her Goddesse, then I call her thiefe,
Now I deny her, then I doe confesse her,
Now doe I curse her, then againe I blesse her.
And Bedlam like thus raving in my griefe,
Now rayle upon her hayre, now on her eye,
Now call her Goddesse, then I call her thiefe,
Now I deny her, then I doe confesse her,
Now doe I curse her, then againe I blesse her.
| The Works of Michael Drayton | |