The Eighth Decade. Sonnet III. ’Twill grieve me more than if thou didst disdain me

Henry Constable (1562–1613)

’TWILL grieve me more than if thou didst disdain me,

That I should die; and thou, because I die so:

And yet to die, it should not know to pain me,

If cruel Beauty were content to bid so.

Death, to my life; life, to my long despair

Prolonged by her; given to my love and days:

Are means to tell how truly she is fair,

And I can die to testify her praise.

Yet not to die, though Fairness me despiseth,

Is cause why in complaint I thus persèver;

Though Death me and my love imparadiseth,

By interdicting me from her for ever.

I do not grieve that I am forced to die,

But die, to think upon the reason, “Why?”