Would God, that I might hear my last bell toll,
So in your bosom I might dig a grave!
Doubtful delay is worse than any fever,
Or help me soon, or cast me off for ever!
VI
_Of the end and death of his love_
Each day, new proofs of new despair I find,
That is, new deaths. No marvel then, though I
Make exile my last help; to th'end mine eye
Should not behold the death to me assigned.
Not that from death absence might save my mind,
But that it might take death more patiently;
Like him, the which by judge condemned to die,
To suffer with more ease, his eyes doth blind.
Your lips in scarlet clad, my judges be,
Pronouncing sentence of eternal "No!"
Despair, the hangman that tormenteth me;
The death I suffer is the life I have.
For only life doth make me die in woe,
And only death I for my pardon crave.
VII
The richest relic Rome did ever view
Was' Caesar's tomb; on which, with cunning hand,
Jove's triple honours, the three fair Graces, stand,
Telling his virtues in their virtues true.
This Rome admired; but dearest dear, in you
Dwelleth the wonder of the happiest land,
And all the world to Neptune's furthest strand,
For what Rome shaped hath living life in you.
Thy naked beauty, bounteously displayed,
Enricheth monarchies of hearts with love;
Thine eyes to hear complaints are open laid;
Thine eyes' kind looks requite all pains I prove;
That of my death I dare not thee accuse;
But pride in me that baser chance refuse.
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