Poem by Edmund Spenser

Amoretti 57. Sweet warriour! when shall I have peace with you?

Sweet warriour! when shall I have peace with you?
High time it is this warre now ended were,
Which I no lenger can endure to sue,
Ne your incessant battry more to beare.
So weake my powres, so sore my wounds, appear,
That wonder is how I should live a iot,
Seeing my hart through-launced every where
With thousand arrowes which your eies have shot.
Yet shoot ye sharpely still, and spare me not,
But glory thinke to make these cruel stoures*.
Ye cruell one! what glory can be got,
In slaying him that would live gladly yours?
  Make peace therefore, and graunt me timely grace,
  That al my wounds will heale in little space.

[* Stoures, agitations.] 

1. Amoretti 46. When my abodes prefixed time is spent
2. Amoretti 13. In that proud port which her so goodly graceth
3. Amoretti 23. Penelope, for her Ulisses sake
4. Amoretti 69. The famous warriors of the anticke world
5. Amoretti 42. The love which me so cruelly tormenteth

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