Sonnet XCI. These bitter gusts, which vex my troubled seas

Barnabe Barnes (1569?–1609)

THESE bitter gusts, which vex my troubled seas,

And move with force, my sorrow’s floods to flow;

My Fancy’s ship tost here and there by these,

Still floats in danger, ranging to and fro.

How fears my Thoughts’ swift pinnace, thine hard rock!

Thine heart’s hard rock, least thou mine Heart (his pilot)

Together with himself, should rashly knock

And being quite dead-stricken, then should cry late,

“Ah me!” too late to thy remorseless self.

Now when thy mercies all been banished,

And blown upon thine hard rock’s ruthless shelf;

My soul in sighs is spent and vanished.

Be pitiful, alas! and take remorse!

Thy beauty too much practiseth his force!