Seccombe and Arber, comps. Elizabethan Sonnets. 1904.
DianaThe Fifth Decade. Sonnet I. Ay me, poor wretch! my prayer is turned to sin
Henry Constable (15621613)A
I say, “I love!” My Mistress says, “’Tis lust!”
Thus most we lose, where most we seek to win.
Wit will make wicked what is ne’er so just.
And yet I can supplant her false surmise.
Lust is a fire that, for an hour or twain,
Giveth a scorching blaze, and then he dies:
Love, a continual furnace doth maintain.
A furnace! Well, this a furnace may be called;
For it burns inward, yields a smothering flame,
Sighs which, like boiled lead’s smoking vapour, scald.
I sigh apace, at echo of Sighs’ name.
Long have I served. No short blaze is my love.
Hid joys there are, that maids scorn till they prove.