Sonnet 11
Sighing, and sadly sitting by my Love,
He ask't the cause of my hearts sorrowing,
Conjuring me by heavens etemall King
To tell the cause which me so much did move.
Compell'd: (quoth I) to thee will I confesse,
Love is the cause; and only love it is
That doth deprive me of my heavenly blisse.
Love is the paine that doth my heart oppresse.
And what is she (quoth he) whom thou do'st love?
Looke in this glasse (quoth I) there shalt thou see
The perfect forme of my faelicitie.
When, thinking that it would strange Magique prove,
He open'd it: and taking of the cover,
He straight perceav'd himseife to be my Lover.
poem by Richard Barnfield
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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