Robert Sidney

Sonnet 8. If that her worth I could as well forget

If that her worth I could as well forget
As of my love the hapless lot I know,
Then to my wounded soul a mean might grow
Which if not health, yet some ease would beget.

But when I think I have my quiet met
And that love foiled yields to his overthrow,
The idol of her beauties proud doth show
Unto my thoughts, in beams which never set.

Summoned by so great truth, I must confess
That all what fair, what good, what perfect is,
All is in her, nothing in her doth miss:

And now grief takes the place love did possess
And all hopes dead, I live to feel this sore—
More that she worthy is, my loss the more.