 | Parthenophil and Parthenophe |  |
SONNET LXII.
[Fye, fye, fierce tyrant, quenche this furious rage]
Fye, fye, fierce tyrant, quenche this furious rage,O quenche this rageous furie, little god!
Nay mightie god, my furies heate asswage,
Nor are thine little dartes, nor brittle rodde,
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Or such a rodde as into health might whippe mee:
With this to leuell at my troubled hart,
To warne with scourge that no bright eye might trippe mee,
Vayne wordes which vanish with the cloudes why speake I?
And bootelesse options builded with voyde ayer?
How oft enrag'd in hopelesse passions breake I,
How oft in false vaine hope, and blacke dispayer?
How oft left liuelesse at thy cloudie frowne?
How oft in passion, mounted, and pluck't downe?
| Parthenophil and Parthenophe | |