FROM
I d e a.
by Michael Drayton
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 uttering of my woe,
And I want words wherewith to tell my wrong ;
But, still distracted in Love's lunacy,
And, bedlam-like, thus raging 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.
|
Michael Drayton
