Classic Poem

Sonnet. V.

Ready to seeke out death, in my disgrace
my Mistres gan to smooth her gathered browes,
whereby I am repriued for a space:
o Hope and Feare, who halfe your torments knowes?
It is some mercie in a black-mouth'd Iudge,
to haste his prysoners end, if he must die
Deere, if all other fauour you shall grudge,
doe speedie execution with your eye.
With one sole looke, you leaue in me no soule,
count it a losse to lose a faithfull slaue;
would God that I might heare my last bell toule,
so in your bosome I might dig my graue.
Doubtfull delay is worse then any feuer,
Or helpe me soone, or cast me off for euer.