Sonnet XXVIII. So be my labours endless in their turns

Barnabe Barnes (1569?–1609)

SO be my labours endless in their turns.

Turn! turn, PARTHENOPHE! Turn, and relent!

Hard is thine heart, and never will repent!

See how this heart within my body burns!

Thou see’st it not! and therefore thou rejournes

My pleasures! Ill my days been overspent.

When I beg grace, thou mine entreaty spurns;

Mine heart, with hope upheld, with fear returns.

Betwixt these Passions, endless is my fit.

Then if thou be but human, grant some pity!

Or if a Saint? sweet mercies are their meeds!

Fair, lovely, chaste, sweet spoken, learned, witty;

These make thee Saint-like! and these, Saints befit:

But thine hard heart makes all these graces, weeds!