|
Fill'd with her love, may I be rather growne |
Mad with much heart, then idiott with none. |
|
Eleg. XI. |
Death. |
|
Language thou art too narrow, and too weake |
To ease us now; great sorrowes cannot speake; |
If we could sigh out accents, and weepe words, |
Griefe weares, and lessens, that teares breath affords, |
Sad hearts, the lesse they seeme, the more they are, |
(So guiltiest men stand mutest at the barre) |
Not that they know not, feele not their estate, |
But extreme sense hath made them desperate; |
Sorrow, to whom we owe all that we be; |
Tyran, in the fift and greatest Monarchy, |
Was't that she did possesse all hearts before, |
Thou hast kill'd her, to make thy Empire more? |
Knew'st thou some would, that knew her not, lament, |
As in a deluge perish th'innocent? |
Was't not enough to have that palace wonne, |
But thou must raze it too, that was undone? |
Hadst thou stayd there, and look'd out at her eyes, |
All had ador'd thee that now from thee flies, |
For they let out more light than they tooke in, |
They told not when, but did the day begin; |
Shee was too Saphirine, and cleare for thee; |
Clay, flint, and jeat now thy fit dwellings be;
|
[CW: Alas;] |