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SONNET XIX.
Not anger, not contempt should be thy meed;
Not scornful indignation; but most deep
And sorrowing pity; soul that canst not sleep
For inborn turbulence, but still dost feed
Passion insane, with vengeful word and deed;
And so from strife to strife for ever leap,
While strangers marvel, foes deride, friends weep,
And good men pray for thee, and kind hearts bleed;
Meanwhile, by headstrong and impetuous will,
Thou on thy blind and desperate course art driven,
And dost the air with wrath and discord fill,
At enmity with all, though oft forgiven;
Thus growing, here on earth, more restless still,
And more unfit for future rest in Heaven.
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