Page:Elizabethan sonnet-cycles.djvu/101



stroke,—so might I thrive as I must praise—

But sweeter hand that gives so sweet a stroke!

The lute itself is sweetest when she plays.

But what hear I? A string through fear is broke!

The lute doth shake as if it were afraid.

O sure some goddess holds it in her hand,

A heavenly power that oft hath me dismayed,

Yet such a power as doth in beauty stand!

Cease lute, my ceaseless suit will ne'er be heard!

Ah, too hard-hearted she that will not hear it!

If I but think on joy, my joy is marred;

My grief is great, yet ever must I bear it;

But love 'twixt us will prove a faithful page,

And she will love my sorrows to assuage.