 | Parthenophil and Parthenophe |  |
SONNET LIX.
[Ah me sweet bewtie lost returnes no more]
Ah me sweet bewtie lost returnes no more,And how I feare thine hart fraught with disdaine,
Dispaier of her disdayne castes doubt before.
And makes me thus of mine harts hope complaine,
Ah me nor mine harts hope, nor helpe: dispaier
Auoyde my fancie, fancies vtter bayne
My woes cheefe worker, cause of all my cayer
Auoyde my thoughtes that hope may me restore
To mine hartes heauen, and happinesse againe:
Ah wilt thou not but still depresse my thought?
Ah (mistresse) if thy bewtie this hath wrought,
That proude disdainefulnesse shall in the rayne,
Yet thinke when in thy forhead wrinckles bee,
Men will disdaine thee then, as thou doest mee.
| Parthenophil and Parthenophe | |