Seccombe and Arber, comps. Elizabethan Sonnets. 1904.
PhillisSonnet XXIII. Burst, burst, poor heart! Thou hast no longer hope
Thomas Lodge (15581625)B
Captive mine eyes unto eternal sleep;
Let all my senses have no further scope;
Let death be lord of me and all my sheep!
For Phillis hath betrothèd fierce disdain,
That makes his mortal mansion in her heart;
And though my tongue have long time taken pain
To sue divorce and wed her to desert.
She will not yield, my words can have no power;
She scorns my faith, she laughs at my sad lays,
She fills my soul with never-ceasing sour,
Who filled the world with volumes of her praise.
In such extremes what wretch can cease to crave
His peace from death, who can no mercy have!