The Fourth Decade. Sonnet VI. Each day, new proofs of new despair I find

Henry Constable (1562–1613)

EACH day, new proofs of new despair I find,

That is, new deaths. No marvel then, though I

Make exile my last help; to th’end mine eye

Should not behold the death to me assigned.

Not that from death, absence might save my mind;

But that it might take death more patiently:

Like him, the which by Judge condemned to die,

To suffer with more ease, his eyes doth blind.

Your lips, in scarlet clad, my Judges be,

Pronouncing sentence of eternal “No!”

DESPAIR, the hangman that tormenteth me:

The death I suffer is the life I have.

For only life doth make me die in woe,

And only death I, for my pardon crave.