XLII.
"No pain so great but may be eased by Art."
"Though much we suffer, yet despair we should not."
"In midst of griefs, Hope always hath some part;
And Time may heal, what Art and Reason could not."
O what is then this Passion I endure,
Which neither Reason, Art, nor Time can cure?
XLIII.
Pale Jealousy! Fiend of the eternal Night!
Misshapen creature, born before thy time!
The Imp of Horror! Foe to sweet Delight!
Making each error seem an heinous crime.
Ah, too great pity! (were there remedy),
That ever Love should keep Thee company!
XLIV.
Solstit: brumal.
This Sonnet was devised upon the shortest day of the year.
The days are now come to their shortest date;
And must, in time, by course, increase again.
But only I continue at one state,
Void of all hope of help, or ease of pain;
For days of joy must still be short with me,
And nights of sorrow must prolongèd be.
XLV.
Sleep now, my Muse! and henceforth take thy rest!
Which all too long thyself in vain hath wasted.
Let it suffice I still must live opprest;
And of my pains, the fruit must ne'er be tasted.
Then sleep, my Muse! "Fate cannot be withstood."
"It's better sleep; than wake, and do no good."