Sonnet 47 by Bartholomew Griffin

I see, I hear, I feel, I know, I rue
My fate, my fame, my pain, my loss, my fall;
Mishap, reproach, disdain, a crown, her hue;
Cruel, still flying, false, fair, funeral,
To cross, to shame, bewitch, deceive, and kill
My first proceedings in their flowing bloom.
My worthless pen fast chainèd to my will,
My erring life through an uncertain doom,
My thoughts that yet in lowliness do mount,
My heart the subject of her tyranny:
What now remains, but her severe account
Of murder’s crying guilt (foul butchery!)
She was unhappy in her cradle breath,
That given was to be another’s death.

From: http://www.shakespeares-sonnets.com/Archive/Fidessa.htm

Date: 1596

By: Bartholomew Griffin (fl. 1596)

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