Sonnet XLVII. But of thy heart too cruel I thee tell

William Smith (fl. 1596)

BUT of thy heart too cruel I thee tell,

Which hath tormented my young budding age;

And doth, (unless your mildness, passions quell)

My utter ruin near at hand presage.

Instead of blood, which wont was to display

His ruddy red upon my hairless face;

By over-grieving, that is fled away:

Pale dying colour there hath taken place.

Those curlèd locks, which thou wast wont to twist,

Unkempt, unshorn, and out of order been;

Since my disgrace, I had of them no list,

Since when, these eyes no joyful day have seen:

Nor never shall, till you renew again

The mutual love which did possess us twain.