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SONNET XXIII


As an unperfect actor on the stage
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
Or some fierce
thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.
So I,
for fear of trust, forget to say 5
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's
strength seem to decay,
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
O, let my books
be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, 10
Who plead for love and
look for recompense
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
 O, learn to
read what silent love hath writ:
 To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.14

Ryter Roethicle
Adoro che cosa può mai essere mine
Sicilian Octave and Sestet

I worship what can never be mine,


Nor possibly ever pass for what is a dream,
But she is real, and all that love may seem,
And so we will wait and bide our time.
Love is a silly state, that makes fools of us all,
But fools are happiest in that state,
And are happier still when led by fate,
Ever satisfied whilst they hear souls call.

Souls are easy guided by their lovers eyes,


Those windows betray what beats inside.
For that flash, that sparkle, cannot disguise,
An aftermath of love that cannot be denied.
So for a while there are just temporary ties,
And in that belief, other things are laid aside.

Sonnet 57
Being your slave what should I do but tend, 
upon the hours, and times of your desire? 
I have
no precious time at all to spend; 
nor do services to do till you require. 
Nor dare I chide the
world-without-end hour, 
Whilst I (my sovereign) watch the clock for you, 
nor think the
bitterness of absence sour, 
When you have bid your servant once adieu. 
Nor dare I question
with my jealous thought, 
where you may be, or your affairs suppose, 
but like a sad slave stay
and think of nought 
save where you are, how happy you make those. 
So true a fool is love,
that in your will, 
(Though you do any thing) he thinks no ill.