Sonnet
Oh, for some honest lover's ghost,Some kind unbodied postSent from the shades below!I strangely long to knowWhether the noble chaplets wearThose that their mistress' scorn did bearOr those that were used kindly.
For whatsoe'er they tell us hereTo make those sufferings dear,'Twill there, I fear, be foundThat to the being crownedT' have loved alone will not suffice,Unless we also have been wiseAnd have our loves enjoyed.
What posture can we think him inThat, here unloved, againDeparts, and 's thither goneWhere each sits by his own?Or how can that Elysium beWhere I my mistress still must seeCircled in other's arms?
For there the judges all are just,And Sophonisba mustBe his whom she held dear,Not his who loved her here.The sweet Philoclea, since she died,Lies by her Pirocles his side,Not by Amphialus.
Some bays, perchance, or myrtle boughFor difference crowns the browOf those kind souls that wereThe noble martyrs here;And if that be the only odds,(As who can tell?) ye kinder gods,Give me the woman here!
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.