Sonnet X. The rumour runs that here in Isis swim

Thomas Lodge (1558–1625)

THE RUMOUR runs that here in Isis swim

Such stately swans so confident in dying,

That when they feel themselves near Lethe’s brim,

They sing their fatal dirge when death is nighing.

And I, like these, that feel my wounds are mortal,

Contented die for her whom I adore;

And in my joyful hymns do still exhort all

To die for such a saint or love no more.

Not that my torments or her tyranny

Enforce me to enjoin so hard a task,

But for I know, and yield no reason why,

But will them try that have desire to ask.

As love hath wreaths his pretty eyes to seel,

So lovers must keep secret what they feel.