THese weeping Truce-men shew I living languish; My woeful wailings tell my discontent: Yet Chloris nought esteemeth of mine anguish; My thrilling throbs, her heart cannot relent. My kids to hear the rhymes and roundelays, Which I, on wasteful hills, was wont to sing, Did more delight than lark in summer days: Whole echo made the neighbour groves to ring. But now my flock, all drooping, bleats and cries; Because my Pipe, the author of their sport, All rent, and torn, and unrespected, lies: Their lamentations do my cares consort. They cease to feed, and listen to the plaint; Which I pour forth unto a cruel Saint.
SONNET XVI.
WHich I pour forth unto a cruel Saint, Who merciless my prayers doth attend: Who tiger-like doth pity my complaint; And never unto my woes will lend. But still false hope despairing life deludes; And tells my fancy I shall grace obtain. But Chloris fair, my orisons concludes With fearful frowns, presagers of my pain. Thus do I spend the weary wandering day, Oppressèd with a chaos of heart's grief: Thus I consume the obscure night away, Neglecting sleep which brings all cares relief. Thus I pass my lingering life in woe: But when my bliss will come, I do not know!
SONNET XVII.