Sonnet 47
Read in my face, a volume of dispaires,
The wailing Iliads of my tragicke woe:
Drawne with my blood, and painted with my cares,
Wrought by her hand that I haue honour'd so.
Who whilst I burne, she sings at my soules wrack,
Looking aloft from turret of her pride:
There my soules tyrant ioyes her, in the sack
Of her owne seate, whereof I made her guide.
There do these smoakes that from affliction rise,
Serue as an incense to a cruell Dame:
A sacrifice thrice-gratefull to her eies,
Because their power serue to exact the same.
Thus ruines she (to satisfie her will,)
The temple, where her name was honour'd still.
The wailing Iliads of my tragicke woe:
Drawne with my blood, and painted with my cares,
Wrought by her hand that I haue honour'd so.
Who whilst I burne, she sings at my soules wrack,
Looking aloft from turret of her pride:
There my soules tyrant ioyes her, in the sack
Of her owne seate, whereof I made her guide.
There do these smoakes that from affliction rise,
Serue as an incense to a cruell Dame:
A sacrifice thrice-gratefull to her eies,
Because their power serue to exact the same.
Thus ruines she (to satisfie her will,)
The temple, where her name was honour'd still.
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