The Seventh Decade. Sonnet VIII. As draws the golden Meteor of the day

Henry Constable (1562–1613)

AS draws the golden Meteor of the day

Exhaled matter, from the ground to heaven;

And by his secret nature, there to stay

The thing fast held, and yet of hold bereaven;

So by th’attractive excellence and might,

Born to the power of thy transparent eyes,

Drawn from myself, ravished with thy delight,

Whose dumb conceits divinely Sirenise,

Lo, in suspense of fear and hope upholden,

Diversely poised with passions that pain me:

No resolution dares my thoughts embolden,

Since ’tis not I, but thou that dost sustain me.

O if there’s none but thou can work my woe;

Wilt thou be still unkind, and kill me so?