THE TARANTULA OF LOVE.
247
SONNET.
I walk within this wood to vent my woes,
Remembering all my griefs and endless groans;
While growing joys deep sad conceits o'ergoes,
And loads my heart with love, my mind with moans.
The pleasant singing birds my plaints expones;
My tears from springs and wells seem to descend;
Yea both the highest hills and hardest stones
If ear they have, an ear to me extend.
Then at the oaks and alders that perpend
My plaints, I speir what way they will me feed,
If for to stay with them I condescend:
"On green," say they, for green does hope aye breed,
Which feeds the wretches, as by proof they prove,
And brings despairing souls some ease in love.
Remembering all my griefs and endless groans;
While growing joys deep sad conceits o'ergoes,
And loads my heart with love, my mind with moans.
The pleasant singing birds my plaints expones;
My tears from springs and wells seem to descend;
Yea both the highest hills and hardest stones
If ear they have, an ear to me extend.
Then at the oaks and alders that perpend
My plaints, I speir what way they will me feed,
If for to stay with them I condescend:
"On green," say they, for green does hope aye breed,
Which feeds the wretches, as by proof they prove,
And brings despairing souls some ease in love.
SONNET.
I hope, sweet soul, to see, at my return,
The heavenly colour of your angel face,
Which is the fire and flame whereby I burn,
And never is impaired by time nor place.
Wherefore, shall als behold in me, this space,
No other change but that of hair and hue:
As for my heart, which loves in pain, but peace,
Even as it was, so shall you find it, true.
The heavenly colour of your angel face,
Which is the fire and flame whereby I burn,
And never is impaired by time nor place.
Wherefore, shall als behold in me, this space,
No other change but that of hair and hue:
As for my heart, which loves in pain, but peace,
Even as it was, so shall you find it, true.
