Sonnet XVI. Which I pour forth unto a cruel Saint

William Smith (fl. 1596)

WHICH I pour forth unto a cruel Saint,

Who merciless my prayers doth attend:

Who tiger-like doth pity my complaint;

And never unto my woes will lend.

But still false hope despairing life deludes;

And tells my fancy I shall grace obtain.

But CHLORIS fair, my orisons concludes

With fearful frowns, presagers of my pain.

Thus do I spend the weary wandering day,

Oppressèd with a chaos of heart’s grief:

Thus I consume the obscure night away,

Neglecting sleep which brings all cares relief.

Thus I pass my lingering life in woe:

But when my bliss will come, I do not know!