Sonnet XVI. But thou, my dear sweet-sounding lute, be still!

Richard Linche (fl. 1596–1601)

BUT thou, my dear sweet-sounding lute, be still!

repose thy troubled strings upon this moss!

Thou hast full often eased me ’gainst my will:

lie down in peace, thy spoil were my great loss!

I’ll speak enough of her too cruel heart,

enough to move the stony rocks to ruth!

And cause these trees weep tears to hear my smart,

though cruel She will not once weigh my truth.

Her face is of the purest white and red,

her eyes are crystal, and her hair is gold.

The World, for shape with garlands crown her head,

and yet a tigress’ heart dwells in this mould.

But I must love her, Tigress! too too much!

Forced; must I love! because I find none such.