Astrophil and Stella
Sonnet 94
Grief, find the words; for thou hast made my brain
So dark with misty vapours, which arise
From out thy heavy mould, that inbent eyes
Can scarce discern the shape of mine own pain.
Do thou, then (for thou canst) do thou complain
For my poor soul, which now that sickness tries,
Which even to sense, sense of it self denies,
Though harbingers of death lodge there his train.
Or if thy love of plaint yet mine forbears,
As of a caitiff worthy so to die;
Yet wail thy self, and wail with causeful tears,
That though in wretchedness thy life doth lie,
Yet growest more wretched then thy nature bears
By being placed in such a wretch as I.
Sir Philip Sidney
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