Sonnets
SONNET XIV
Surely thine intellect gives no embrace
To him who hath bred this day’s dishonesty;
How art thou shown for beggared suddenly
By that red spirit showing in thy face!
Perhaps it is some love within thee breedeth
For her who’s folly’s circumscription,
Perhaps some baser light doth call thee on
To make thee glad where mine own grief exceedeth.
Thou are my grief, my grief to such extent
That I trust not myself to meet Milady,
Starving myself of what Love sweetest lent me
So that before my face that key’s forbent
Which her disdeign turned in my heart and made me
Suitor to wrath and sadness and lamenting.
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