Idea - 41
41
Why doe I speake of Joy, or write of Love,
When my Heart is the very Den of Horror,
And in my Soule the paines of Hell I prove,
With all his Torments and Infernall terror?
What should I say? what yet remaines to doe?
My Braine is drie with weeping all too long,
My Sighes be spent in utt'ring of my Woe,
And I want words, wherewith to tell my Wrong:
But still distracted in Loves Lunacie,
And Bedlam-like, thus raving in my Griefe,
Now raile upon her Haire, then on her Eye;
Now call her Goddesse, then I call her Thiefe;
Now I deny Her, then I doe confesse Her,
Now doe I curse Her, then againe I blesse Her.
Why doe I speake of Joy, or write of Love,
When my Heart is the very Den of Horror,
And in my Soule the paines of Hell I prove,
With all his Torments and Infernall terror?
What should I say? what yet remaines to doe?
My Braine is drie with weeping all too long,
My Sighes be spent in utt'ring of my Woe,
And I want words, wherewith to tell my Wrong:
But still distracted in Loves Lunacie,
And Bedlam-like, thus raving in my Griefe,
Now raile upon her Haire, then on her Eye;
Now call her Goddesse, then I call her Thiefe;
Now I deny Her, then I doe confesse Her,
Now doe I curse Her, then againe I blesse Her.
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