Sonnet LII. It is some comfort to the wrongèd man

Bartholomew Griffin (d. 1602)

IT is some comfort to the wrongèd man,

The wronger, of injustice to upbraid.

Justly myself, herein I comfort can,

And justly call her “An ungrateful maid!”

Thus am I pleased to rid myself of crime,

And stop the mouth of all-reporting fame;

Counting my greatest cross, the loss of time,

And all my private grief, her public shame.

Ah, (but to speak the truth) hence are my cares,

And in this comfort, all discomfort resteth;

My harms I cause (her scandal) unawares,

Thus love procures the thing that love detesteth.

For he that views the glasses of my smart

Must needs report “She hath a flinty heart!”