LXXVI.
[Thou foolish God the Author of my griefe]
In this Sonnet the Author being, as it were, in halfe a madding
moode, falleth at variance with Loue himselfe, & blasphemeth
his godheade, as one that can make a greater
wounde, then afterwardes he him selfe can recure. And the
chiefe cause that he setteth downe, why he is no longer to
hope for helpe at Loues hande, is this, because he him selfe
could not remedie the hurt which he susteyned by the loue
of faire Psyches.
Thou
foolish God the Author of my griefe,
If Psyches beames could set thy heart on fire,
How can I hope, of thee to haue reliefe,
Whose minde with mine doth suffer like desire?
Henceforth my heart shall sacrifice elswhere
To such a Sainte as higher porte doth beare.
And such a Saint is she, whom I adore,
As foyles thy force, and makes thee stand aloofe;
None els, but she, can salue my festred soare;
And she alone will serue in my behoofe:
Then blinded boye, goe packe thee hence away,
And thou Sweet Soule, giue eare to what I say.
And yet what shall I say? straunge is my case,
In mid'st of froast to burne, and freze in flame:
Would Gods I neuer had beheld thy face,
Or els, that once I might possesse the same:
Or els that chaunce would make me free againe,
Whose hand helpt Loue to bring me to this paine.
