Page:Elizabethan sonnet-cycles.djvu/178



fair, to thee I make my plaint,

To thee from whom my cause of grief doth spring;

Attentive be unto the groans, sweet saint,

Which unto thee in doleful tunes I sing.

My mournful muse doth always speak of thee;

My love is pure, O do it not disdain!

With bitter sorrow still oppress not me,

But mildly look upon me which complain.

Kill not my true-affecting thoughts, but give