Lo, here the impost of a faith unfeigning, That love hath paid, and her disdain extorted; Behold the message of my just complaining, That shows the world how much my grief imported. These tributary plaints, fraught with desire, I send those eyes, the cabinets of love, The paradise whereto my hopes aspire, From out this hell, which mine afflictions prove; Wherein I thus do live, cast down from mirth, Pensive, alone, none but despair about me; My joys abortive, perished at their birth, My cares long lived, and will not die without me. This is my state, and Delia's heart is such; I say no more, I fear I said too much. |