Thursday, May 21, 2009

Bartholomew Griffin

Sonnet 18 from Fidessa, 1596

O, She must love my sorrows to assuage. 
O God ! what joy I felt when She did smile ! 
Whom killing grief before did cause to rage.
(Beauty is able Sorrow to beguile) 
Out, traitor Absence ! thou dost hinder me ! 
And mak'st my Mistress often to forget, 
Causing me to rail upon her cruelty, 
Whilst thou my suit injuriously dost let ! 
Again, her Presence doth astonish me, 
And strikes me dumb, as if my Sense were gone. 
Oh ! is not this a strange perplexity ? 
In presence, dumb ! she hears not absent moan !
Thus absent, presence; present, absence maketh: 
That, hearing my poor suit, she it mistaketh !

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