University of Virginia Library

Sonnet LXXXIII

[VVho Grace, for Zenith had, from which no shadowes grow]

VVho Grace, for Zenith had, from which no shadowes grow,
Who hath seene Ioy of all his hopes, and end of all his woe,
Whose Loue belou'd hath beene the crowne of his desire,
Who hath seene sorrowes glories burnt, in sweet affections fire:
If from this heauenly state, which soules with soules vnites,
He be falne downe into the darke despaired warre of sprites;
Let him lament with me, for none doth glorie know,
That hath not beene aboue himselfe, and thence falne downe to woe:
But if there be one hope left in his languish'd heart,
In feare of worse, if wish of ease, if horrour may depart,
He playes with his complaints, he is no mate for me,
Whose loue is lost, whose hopes are fled, whose feares for euer be.
Yet not those happy feares which shew Desire her death
Teaching with vse a peace in woe, and in despaire a faith:
No, no, my feares kill not, but make vncured wounds,
Where ioy and peace doe issue out, and onely paine abounds.
Vnpossible are helpe, reward and hope to me,
Yet while vnpossible they are, they easie seeme to be.
Most easie seemes remorse, despaire and deathe to me,
Yet while they passing easie seeme, vnpossible they be.
So neither can I leaue my hopes that doe deceiue
Nor can I trust mine owne despaire, and nothing else receiue.
Thus be vnhappy men, blest to be more accurst;
Neere to the glories of the Sunne, clouds with most horrour burst.
Like Ghosts raised out of graues, who liue not, though they goe,
Whose walking feare to others is, and to themselues a woe:
So is my life by her whose loue to me is dead,
On whose worth my despaire yet walks, and my desire is fed;
I swallow downe the baite, which carries downe my death;
I cannot put loue from my heart, while life drawes in my breath;
My Winter is within which withereth my ioy;
My Knowledge, seate of Ciuill warre, where friends and foes destroy,
And my Desires are Wheeles, whereon my heart is borne,
With endlesse turning of themselues, still liuing to be torne.
My Thoughts are Eagles food, ordayned to be a prey
To worth; and being still consum'd, yet neuer to decay.
My Memorie, where once my heart laid vp the store
Of helpe, of ioy, of spirits wealth to multiply them more;
Is now become the Tombe wherein all these lye slaine,
My helpe, my ioy, my spirits wealth all sacrific'd to paine.
In Paradise I once did liue; and taste the tree,
Which shadowed was from all the world, in ioy to shadow me.
The tree hath lost his fruit, or I have lost my seate,
My soule both blacke with shadow is, and ouer-burnt with heat:
Truth here for triumph serues, to shew her power is great,
Whom no desert can ouercome, nor no distresse intreat.
Time past layes vp my ioy; and time to come my griefe,
She euer must be my desire, and neuer my reliefe.
Wrong, her Lieutenant is; my wounded Thoughts are they,
Who haue no power to keepe the field, nor will to runne away.
O ruefull Constancy, and where is Change so base,
As it may be compar'd with thee in scorne, and in disgrace?
Like as the Kings forlorne, depos'd from their estate,
Yet cannot choose but loue the Crowne, although new Kings they hate;
If they doe plead their right, nay, if they onely liue,
Offences to the Crowne alike their Good and Ill shall giue;
So (I would I were not) because I may complaine,
And cannot choose but loue my Wrongs, and ioy to Wish in vaine;
This faith condemneth me, my right doth rumor moue,
I may not know the cause I fell, nor yet without cause loue.
Then Loue where is reward, at least where is the fame
Of them that being, beare thy crosse, and being not, thy name?
The worlds example I, a Fable euery where,
A Well from whence the springs are dried, a Tree that doth not beare:
I like the Bird in cage at first with cunning caught,
And in my bondage for delight with greater cunning taught.
Now owners humour dyes, I neither loued nor fed,
Nor freed am, till in the cage forgotten I be dead.
The Ship of Greece, the Streames and she be not the same
They were, although Ship, Streames and she still beare their antique name.
The Wood which was, is worne, those waues are runne away,
Yet still a Ship, and still a Streame, still running to a Sea.
She lou'd, and still she loues, but doth not still loue me,
To all except my selfe yet is, as she was wont to be.
O, my once happy thoughts, the heauen where grace did dwell,
My Saint hath turn'd away her face, and made that heauen my hell.
A hell, for so is that from whence no soules returne,
Where, while our spirits are sacrific'd, they waste not though they burne.
Since then this is my state, and nothing worse than this,
Behold the mappe of death-like life exil'd from louely blisse,
Alone among the world, strange with my friends to be,
Shewing my fall to them that scorne, see not or will not see.
My Heart a wildernesse, my studies only feare,
And as in shadowes of curst death, a prospect of despaire.
My Exercise, must be my horrours to repeat,
My Peace, Ioy, End, and Sacrifice her dead Loue to intreat.
My Food, the time that was; the time to come, my Fast;
For Drinke, the barren thirst I feele of glories that are past;
Sighs and salt teares my Bath; Reason, my Looking-glasse,
To shew me he most wretched is, that once most happy was.
Forlorne desires my Clocke to tell me euery day,
That time hath stolne Loue, Life, and All but my distresse away.
For Musicke heauy sighes, my Walke an inward woe,
Which like a shadow euer shall before my body goe:
And I my selfe am he, that doth with none compare,
Except in woes and lacke of worth; whose states more wretched are.
Let no man aske my name, nor what else I should be;
For Greiv-Ill, paine, forlorne estate doe best decipher me.