The Seventh Decade. Sonnet V. Had she not been so excellently fair

Henry Constable (1562–1613)

HAD she not been so excellently fair,

My Muse had never mourned in lines of woe:

But I did too too inestimable weigh her,

And that’s the cause I now lament me so.

Yet not for her contempt do I complain me

(Complaints may ease the mind, but that is all);

Therefore though she too constantly disdain me,

I can but sigh and grieve, and so I shall.

Yet grieve I not, because I must grieve ever;

And yet, alas, waste tears away in vain.

I am resolved truly to persèver,

Though she persisteth in her old disdain.

But that which grieves me most, is that I see

Those which most fair, the most unkindest be.