Sonnet XXIX. Cease, Eyes, to cherish with still flowing tears

Richard Linche (fl. 1596–1601)

CEASE, Eyes, to cherish with still flowing tears,

the almost withered roots of dying grief!

Dry up your running brooks! and dam your meres!

and let my body die for moist relief!

But DEATH is deaf! for well he knows my pain,

my slackless pain, hell’s horror doth exceed.

There is no hell so black as her disdain!

whence cares, sighs, sorrows, and all griefs do breed.

Instead of sleep, when day incloistered is

in dusty prison of infernal night,

With broad-waked eyes, I wail my miseries;

and if I wink, I fear some ugly sight,

Such fearful dreams do haunt my troubled mind:

My Love ’s the cause, ’cause She is so unkind.