The Fifth Decade. Sonnet I. Ay me, poor wretch! my prayer is turned to sin

Henry Constable (1562–1613)

AY me, poor wretch! my prayer is turned to sin.

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.