Esther M. Zimmer Lederberg
Thomas Watson Hekatompathia 1592: Sonnet II
My harte is sett him downe twixt hope & feares
Upon the stonie banke of high desire,
To view his own made flud of blubbering teares
Whose waves are bitter salt, and hote as fire:
There blows no blast of wind but ghostly grones
Nor waues make other noyse than pitious moanes
As life were spent he waiteth Charons boate,
And thinks he dwells on side of Stigian lake:
But blacke despaire some times with open throate,
Or spightefull jealousie doth cause him quake,
With howlinge shrikes on him they call and crie
That he as yet shall nether liue nor die:
Thus voyde of helpe he fittes in heauy case,
And wanteth voyce to make his iust complaint.
No flowr but Hiacynth in all the place,
No sunne comes there, nor any heau'nly sainte,
But onely shee, which in him selfe remaines,
And ioyes her ease though he abound in paines.
Website Terms of Use