Sonnets: Idea XLI Love's Lunacy
Why do I speak of joy or write of love, When my heart is the very den of horror, And in my soul the pains of hell I prove, With all his torments and infernal terror? What should I say? what yet remains to do? My brain is dry with weeping all too long; My sighs be spent in utt'ring of my woe, And I want words wherewith to tell my wrong. But still distracted in love's lunacy, And bedlam-like thus raving in my grief, Now rail upon her hair, then on her eye, Now call her goddess, then I call her thief; Now I deny her, then I do confess her, Now do I curse her, then again I bless her.
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"Why do I speak of joy or write of love,..."
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