Verse > Anthologies > Elizabethan Sonnets > Chloris
Seccombe and Arber, comps.  Elizabethan Sonnets.  1904.
Sonnet XXXIV. The bird of Thrace, which doth bewail her rape
William Smith (fl. 1596)
THE BIRD of Thrace, which doth bewail her rape
And murdered ITIS eaten by his Sire,
When she her woes in doleful tunes doth shape;
She sets her breast against a thorny briar.
  Because care-charmer Sleep should not disturb        5
The tragic tale which to the night she tells;
She doth her rest and quietness thus curb,
Amongst the groves where secret silence dwells.
  Even so I wake; and waking, wail all night
CHLORIS’ unkindness, slumbers doth expel.        10
I need not thorns, sweet sleep to put to flight.
Her cruelty, my golden rest doth quell:
  That day and night to me are only one;
  Consumed in woe, in tears, in sighs, and moan.

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