Astrophil and Stella: 94th Sonnet

by Philip Sidney

Greefe find the words, for thou hast made my braine
So darke with mistie vapours which arise
From out thy heavie mould, that inbent eyes
Can scarce discerne the shape of mine owne paine:
Do thou then (for thou canst) do thou complaine
For my poore soule which now that sicknes tries,
Which even to sense, sense of it selfe denies.
Though harbengers of death lodge there his traine,
Or if the love of plaint yet mind forbeares,
As of a Caitife worthie so to dye;
Yet waye thy selfe and wayle in causefull teares:
That though in wretchednes thy life doth lie,
Yet growest more wretched than thy nature beares:
By being plast in such a wretch as I.

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