O fate, O fault, O curse, child of my bliss; What sobs can give words grace my grief to show? What ink is black enough to paint my woe? Through me, wretch me, even Stella vexed is. Yet truth -- if caitiff's breath might call thee -- this Witness with me, that my foul stumbling so From carelessness did in no manner grow; But wit, confused with too much care, did miss. And do I then myself this vain 'scuse give? I have (live I, and know this?) harmed thee; Though worlds 'quit me, shall I myself forgive? Only with pains my pains thus eased be, That all my hurts in my heart's wrack I read; I cry thy sighs; my dear, thy tears I bleed. |