Sonnet XLII. Read in my face, a volume of despairs!

Samuel Daniel (1562–1619)

READ in my face, a volume of despairs!

The wailing Iliads of my tragic woe;

Drawn with my blood, and printed with my cares,

Wrought by her hand that I have honoured so.

Who, whilst I burn, she sings at my soul’s wrack,

Looking aloft from turret of her pride:

There, my Soul’s Tyrant ’joys her in the sack

Of her own seat; whereof I made her guide.

There do these smokes, that from affliction rise,

Serve as an incense to a cruel Dame.

A sacrifice thrice-grateful to her eyes,

Because their power serves to exact the same.

Thus ruins She, to satisfy her will,

The Temple, where her name was honoured still.