Sonnet L. So warble out your tragic notes of sorrow

Barnabe Barnes (1569?–1609)

SO warble out your tragic notes of sorrow,

Black harp of liver-pining Melancholy!

Black Humour, patron of my Fancy’s folly!

Mere follies, which from Fancy’s fire, borrow

Hot fire; which burns day, night, midnight, and morrow.

Long morning which prolongs my sorrows solely,

And ever overrules my Passions wholly:

So that my fortune, where it first made sorrow,

Shall there remain, and ever shall it plow

The bowels of mine heart; mine heart’s hot bowels!

And in their furrows, sow the Seeds of Love;

Which thou didst sow, and newly spring up now

And make me write vain words: no words, but Vowels!

For nought to me, good Consonant would prove.