Sonnet IV

Embittered, alas, mine heart, doth regret.
Why, say, I beseech, eynes smothered in rheum
What reason maketh your mind, of this prune
Disdain? Did thou, all that thou swore, forget?
Selfless, oh! my love profound, begets none
Of thine. So, tell me, priceless, durst thou not
Upright to thyself be. Now know I not
How not to loathe your heart, the heart of stone.
Benighted, haply I conceive, sweven,
A Spell, blithe and blissful. Then in my mind
Methinks, I crave for your embrace, and fain.
And wherefore bemoans mine blunted reason,
The bygone? Love is no love when doth find
Hate, with passing time. Love it is, not pain.