Seccombe and Arber, comps. Elizabethan Sonnets. 1904.
ChlorisSonnet XXXVI. What a wound, and what a deadly stroke
William Smith (fl. 1596)W
Doth C
Which cleaves, more fast than ivy doth to oak,
Unto our hearts where he his might discovers.
Though warlike M
With that tried coat which fiery V
L
And in his breast in streaming gore did wade.
So pitiless is this fell conqueror,
That in his Mother’s paps his arrows stuck!
Such is his rage! that he doth not defer
To wound those orbs, from whence he life did suck.
Then sith no mercy he shews to his mother;
We meekly must his force and rigour smother.