Sonnet X. Yet give me leave, since all my joys be perished

Barnabe Barnes (1569?–1609)

YET give me leave, since all my joys be perished,

Heart-less, to moan for my poor Heart’s departure!

Nor should I mourn for him, if he were cherished.

Ah, no! She keeps him like a slavish martyr.

Ah, me! Since merciless, she made that charter,

Sealed with the wax of steadfast continence,

Signed with those hands which never can unwrite it,

Writ with that pen, which (by preeminence)

Too sure confirms whats’ever was indightit:

What skills to wear thy girdle, or thy garter;

When other arms shall thy small waist embrace?

How great a waste of mind and body’s weal!

Now melts my soul! I, to thine eyes appeal!

If they, thy tyrant champions, owe me grace.