Verse > Anthologies > Elizabethan Sonnets > Fidessa
Seccombe and Arber, comps.  Elizabethan Sonnets.  1904.
Sonnet XXXII. Sore sick of late, Nature her due would have
Bartholomew Griffin (d. 1602)
SORE sick of late, Nature her due would have,
  Great was my pain where still my mind did rest;
No hope but heaven! no comfort but my grave,
  Which is of comforts both the last and least!
But on a sudden, th’Almighty sent        5
  Sweet ease to the distressed and comfortless,
And gave me longer time for to repent;
  With health and strength, the foes of feebleness.
Yet I my health no sooner ’gan recover,
  But my old thoughts, though full of cares, retained,        10
Made me, as erst, become a wretched lover
  Of her, that Love and lovers aye disdained.
Then was my pain, with ease of pain increased,
And I ne’er sick until my sickness ceased.

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