Page:Elizabethan sonnet-cycles.djvu/172



I pour forth unto a cruel saint,

Who merciless my prayers doth attend,

Who tiger-like doth pity my complaint,

And never ear unto my woes will lend!

But still false hope dispairing life deludes,

And tells my fancy I shall grace obtain;

But Chloris fair my orisons concludes

With fearful frowns, presagers of my pain.

Thus do I spend the weary wand'ring day,

Oppressèd with a chaos of heart's grief;

Thus I consume the obscure night away,

Neglecting sleep which brings all cares relief;

Thus do I pass my ling'ring life in woe;

But when my bliss will come I do not know.