XCII.
Be your words made, good Sir! of Indian ware;
That you allow me them by so small rate?
Or do you cutted Spartan's imitate?
Or do you mean my tender ears to spare?
That to my questions, you so total are.
When I demand of Phoenix STELLA'S state;
You say, forsooth! "You left her well of late."
O GOD! think you that satisfies my care?
I would know whether she sit or walk?
How clothed? how waited on? sighed she or smiled?
Whereof? with whom? how often did she talk?
With what pastime Time's journey she beguiled?
If her lips deigned to sweeten my poor name?
Say all! and all well said, still say the same!
[The TENTH SONG at p. 576 is placed here in the 1598 edition.]
XCIII.
O fate! O fault! O curse! child of my bliss!
What sobs can give words grace my grief to show?
What ink is black enough to paint my woe?
Through me, wretched me! even STELLA vexed is.
Yet TRUTH—if caitiff's breath may call thee!—this
Witness with me, that my foul stumbling so
From carelessness did in no manner grow;
But wit confused with too much care, did miss.
And do I then myself this vain 'scuse give?
I have (live I, and know this!) harmed thee!
Though worlds quite me, shall I me self forgive?
Only with pains, my pains thus eased be,
That all thy hurts in my heart's rack I read:
I cry thy sighs, my Dear! thy tears I bleed.
