Sonnet 62. Late, Tir'D With Woe
Late tir'd with woe, ev'n ready for to pine, With rage of love, I call'd my love unkind; She is whose eyes Love, though unfelt, doth shine, Sweet said that I true love in her should find. I joy'd, but straight thus water'd was my wine, That love she did, but lov'd a Love not blind, Which would not let me, whem she lov'd, decline From nobler course, fit for my birth and mind: And therefore by her love's authority, Will'd me these tempests of vain love to flee, And anchor fast myself on Virtue's shore. Alas, if this the only metal be Of Love, new-coin'd to help my beggary, Dear, love me not, that you may love me more.
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