Sonnet 9. Oft had I passed the joys and griefs of love Oft had I passed the joys and griefs of love And weary of them both was laid to rest, And now desire, as an unworthy quest Which doth oppress his friend I did remove: No woman’s force, I thought, should ever move My soul comes home again to new unrest, When you, or in your shape an Angel dressed, Called out my quiet thoughts once more to love: Straight my proud will did unto prayers turn, For who in you, not cause of love doth find Or blind he is of eyes, or blind of mind. I yield, I love: to you, than erst, I burn More hot, more pure; like wood oft warm before, But to you burnt to dust, can burn no more. |
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