Verse > Anthologies > Elizabethan Sonnets > Phillis
Seccombe and Arber, comps.  Elizabethan Sonnets.  1904.
Sonnet VI. It is not death which wretched men call dying
Thomas Lodge (1558–1625)
IT is not death which wretched men call dying,
But that is very death which I endure,
When my coy-looking nymph, her grace envying,
By fatal frowns my domage doth procure.
  It is not life which we for life approve,        5
But that is life when on her wool-soft paps
I seal sweet kisses which do batten love,
And doubling them do treble my good haps.
  ’Tis neither love the son, nor love the mother,
Which lovers praise and pray to; but that love is        10
Which she in eye and I in heart do smother.
Then muse not though I glory in my miss,
  Since she who holds my heart and me in durance,
  Hath life, death, love and all in her procurance.

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