Fidessa more chaste then kinde. By B. Griffin |
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SONNET. XI.
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 | Fidessa |  |
SONNET. XI.
[Wing'd with sad woes, why doth faire Zephire blow]
Wing'd with sad woes, why doth faire Zephire blowVpon my face, (the map of discontent)
Is it to haue the weedes of sorrow grow
So long and thicke, that they will nere bee spent?
No fondling, no, it is to coole the fire,
Which hot desire within thy breast hath made:
Check him but once, and he will soone retire:
Oh but he sorrowes brought, which cannot fade.
The sorrowes that he brought he tooke from thee,
Which faire Fidessa spun, and thou must weare:
Yet hath she nothing done of crueltie,
But (for her sake) to trie what thou wilt beare.
Come sorrowes come, you are to me assignde,
Ile beare you all: it is Fidessaes minde.
| Fidessa | |