Verse > Anthologies > Elizabethan Sonnets > Chloris
Seccombe and Arber, comps.  Elizabethan Sonnets.  1904.
Sonnet XLVII. But of thy heart too cruel I thee tell
William Smith (fl. 1596)
BUT of thy heart too cruel I thee tell,
Which hath tormented my young budding age;
And doth, (unless your mildness, passions quell)
My utter ruin near at hand presage.
  Instead of blood, which wont was to display        5
His ruddy red upon my hairless face;
By over-grieving, that is fled away:
Pale dying colour there hath taken place.
  Those curlèd locks, which thou wast wont to twist,
Unkempt, unshorn, and out of order been;        10
Since my disgrace, I had of them no list,
Since when, these eyes no joyful day have seen:
  Nor never shall, till you renew again
  The mutual love which did possess us twain.

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