Sonnet 45
Good now bee still, and doe nott mee torment
With multituds of questions, bee att rest,
And only lett mee quarrell with my brest
Which still letts in new stormes my soule to rent;
Fy, will you still my mischiefs more augment?
You say I answere cross, I that confest
Long since, yett must I ever bee oprest
With your toungue torture which will ne're bee spent?
Well then I see noe way butt this will fright
That Divell speach; Alas I ame possesst,
And mad folks senceles ar of wisdomes right,
The hellish speritt absence doth arest
All my poore sences to his cruell might,
Spare mee then till I ame my self, and blest.
With multituds of questions, bee att rest,
And only lett mee quarrell with my brest
Which still letts in new stormes my soule to rent;
Fy, will you still my mischiefs more augment?
You say I answere cross, I that confest
Long since, yett must I ever bee oprest
With your toungue torture which will ne're bee spent?
Well then I see noe way butt this will fright
That Divell speach; Alas I ame possesst,
And mad folks senceles ar of wisdomes right,
The hellish speritt absence doth arest
All my poore sences to his cruell might,
Spare mee then till I ame my self, and blest.
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