Uncertain of my state, I weep and sing,
    I hope and tremble, and with rhymes and sighs
    I ease my load, while Love his utmost tries
    How worse my sore afflicted heart to sting. 
    Will her sweet seraph face again e’er bring
    Their former light to these despairing eyes. 
    (What to expect, alas! or how advise)
    Or must eternal grief my bosom wring? 
    For heaven, which justly it deserves to win,
    It cares not what on earth may be their fate,
    Whose sun it was, where centred their sole gaze. 
    Such terror, so perpetual warfare in,
    Changed from my former self, I live of late
    As one who midway doubts, and fears and strays.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXV.

O dolci sguardi, o parolette accorte.

HE SIGHS FOR THOSE GLANCES FROM WHICH, TO HIS GRIEF, FORTUNE EVER DELIGHTS TO WITHDRAW HIM.

      O angel looks!  O accents of the skies! 
    Shall I or see or hear you once again? 
    O golden tresses, which my heart enchain,
    And lead it forth, Love’s willing sacrifice! 
    O face of beauty given in anger’s guise,
    Which still I not enjoy, and still complain! 
    O dear delusion!  O bewitching pain! 
    Transports, at once my punishment and prize! 
    If haply those soft eyes some kindly beam
    (Eyes, where my soul and all my thoughts reside)
    Vouchsafe, in tender pity to bestow;
    Sudden, of all my joys the murtheress tried,
    Fortune with steed or ship dispels the gleam;
    Fortune, with stern behest still prompt to work my woe.

    WRANGHAM.

      O gentle looks!  O words of heavenly sound! 
    Shall I behold you, hear you once again? 
    O waving locks, that Love has made the chain,
    In which this wretched ruin’d heart is bound! 
    O face divine! whose magic spells surround
    My soul, distemper’d with unceasing pain: 
    O dear deceit!  O loving errors vain! 
    To hug the dart and doat upon the wound! 
    Did those soft eyes, in whose angelic light
    My life, my thoughts, a constant mansion find,
    Ever impart a pure unmixed delight? 
    Or if they have one moment, then unkind
    Fortune steps in, and sends me from their sight,
    And gives my opening pleasures to the wind.

    MOREHEAD.

SONNET CCXVI.

I’ pur ascolto, e non odo novella.

HEARING NO TIDINGS OF HER, HE BEGINS TO DESPAIR.

      Still do I wait to hear, in vain still wait,
    Of that sweet enemy I love so well: 
    What now to think or say I cannot tell,
    ’Twixt hope and fear my feelings fluctuate: 
    The beautiful are still the marks of fate;
    And sure her worth and beauty most excel: