SONNET XXI.
Come death! the anchor hold of all my thoughts,
My last resort whereto my soul appealeth:
For all too long on earth my Fancy dotes,
While dearest blood my fiery passions sealeth.
That heart is now the prospective of horror
That honoured hath the cruel'st Fair that liveth;
The cruelest Fair that knows I languish for her,
And never mercy to my merit giveth;
This is the laurel and her triumph's prize,
To tread me down with foot of her disgrace;
Whilst I did build my fortune in her eyes,
And laid my soul's rest on so fair a face.
That rest I lost; my love, my life and all:
Thus high attempts to low disgrace do fall.
SONNET XXII.
If this be love, to draw a weary breath,
To paint on floods till the shore cry to the air;
With prone aspect still treading on the earth.
Sad horror! pale grief! prostrate despair!
If this be love, to war against my soul,
Rise up to wail, lie down to sigh, to grieve me,
With ceaseless toil CARE'S restless stones to roll,
Still to complain and moan, whilst none relieve me.
If this be love, to languish in such care
Loathing the light, the world, myself and all,
With interrupted sleeps, fresh griefs repair;
And breathe out horror in perplexed thrall.
If this be love, to live a living death:
Lo then love I, and draw this weary breath.
