These tears, and the black map of all my woe.’
This is the eleventh sonnet: the twelfth is full of vile and forced conceits, without any sentiment at all; such as calling the Sun ‘the Goldsmith of the stars,’ ‘the enameller of the moon,’ and ‘the Apelles of the flowers.’ This is as bad as Cowley or Sir Philip Sidney. Here is one that is worth a million of such quaint devices.
‘To the Nightingale.
Dear chorister, who from these shadows sends,[[32]]
Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light,
Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends
(Become all ear[[33]]) stars stay to hear thy plight.
If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends,
Who ne’er (not in a dream) did taste delight,
May thee importune who like case pretends,