Astrophil and Stella: 93rd Sonnet

by Philip Sidney

O Fate, รด fault, O curst child of my blisse,
What sobs can give words grace my griefe to show?
What inke is black enough to paint my woe?
Through mee, wretch mee, even Stella vexed is:
Yet Trueth, if Caitives brath might call thee this,
Witnes with mee, that my fowle stumbling so,
From carelesnes did in no manner growe,
But wit confusd with too much care did misse.
And do I then my selfe this vaine scuse give:
I do sweete Love, and know this harmed thee.
The world quit mee, shall I my self forgive?
Onely with paines my paines thus eased be:
That all thy hurtes in my hearts wracke I reed
I crye thy sighs (my deare) thy teares I bleed.

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