Delia: Sonnet 22

THese sorrowing sighes, the smoakes of mine annoy,
These teares, which heate of sacred flame distils,
Are those due tributes that my faith doth pay
Vnto the Tyrant, vvhose vnkindnes kils.
I sacrifize my youth, and blooming yeeres,
At her proude feete, and she respects not it:
My flowre vntimely's withred with my teares,
And Winter woes, for spring of youth vnfit.
Shee thinks a looke may recompence my care,
And so with lookes, prolongs my long-lookt ease,
As short that blisse, so is the comfort rare,
Yet must that blisse my hungry thoughts appease.
Thus she returnes my hopes so fruitlesse euer,
Once let her loue indeed, or eye me neuer.