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,

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

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.