CXIII
IF thou who readst this verse do find herein
More tragedy than joyous thought exprest,
Oh, marvel not, that grief should not be drest
By me, in bright array, to cloak my sin.
My sin is love, love which I may not win;
And by this fact is my heart overprest
With weight of sorrow, and my soul distrest,
That I must end where others do begin.
So, if thou seekest to find within this line
Enjoyment of a jest, pray put it by.
’Tis simply for love’s elegy to twine
A wreath of myrtle with a lover’s sigh.
For if this verse were gay, ’twould not be mine,
Since lacking of my true love’s love am I.