Wednesday, May 31, 2017
Here, sweete Groundlyngs, thou mayest behold mine sonnet 35. Hastow a love who hath hurt thee, and though thou mayest forgive, thy do hold to some spite?
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done.
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authórizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing these sins more than these sins are.
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense—
Thy adverse party is thy advocate—
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence.
Such civil war is in my love and hate
That I an áccessory needs must be
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Thursday, May 25, 2017
Monday, May 22, 2017
O mine Groundlynges, how your Will doth loathe those men who, once emboldened by the drinking of sack, do invade the personal space of this poet. If thou know'st such an one, feel free to tagge him on Facebooke or share at thou see'st fit.