Read in my face a volume of despairs, <br />The wailing Iliads of my tragic woe, <br />Drawn with my blood and printed with my cares <br />Wrought by her hand, that I have honor'd so. <br />Who, whilst I burn, she sings at my soul's wrack, <br />Looking aloft from turret of her pride; <br />There my soul's tyrant joys her in the sack <br />Of her own seat, whereof I made her guide. <br />There do these smokes that from affliction rise, <br />Serve as an incense to a cruel Dame; <br />A sacrifice thrice grateful to her eyes, <br />Because their power serve to exact the same. <br />Thus ruins she, to satisfy her will, <br />The Temple where her name was honor'd still.<br /><br />Samuel Daniel<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xlvii-read-in-my-face/
