The Poetry Corner

Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet XCIV

By Philip Sidney (Sir)

Griefe, find the words; for thou hast made my braine So darke with misty vapuors, which arise From out thy heauy 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 sicknesse tries, Which euen to sence, sence of it selfe denies, Though harbengers of death lodge there his traine. Or if thy loue of plaint yet mine forbeares, As of a Caitife worthy so to die; Yet waile thy selfe, and waile with causefull teares, That though in wretchednesse thy life doth lie, Yet growest more wretched then by nature beares By being plac'd in such a wretch as I.