Delia: Sonnet 25

RAigne in my thoughts faire hande, sweete eye, rare voyce,
Posses me whole, my harts trium virate:
Yet heauy hart to make so hard a choyse,
Of such as spoile thy poore afflicted state.
For whilst they striue which shall be Lord of all,
All my poore life by them is troden downe:
They all erect their Trophies on my fall,
And yeeld me nought that giues thē their renowne,
When backe I looke, I sigh my freedome past,
And waile the state wherein I present stand;
And see my fortune euer like to last,
Finding me rain'd with such a heauie hand;
What can I do but yeeld? and yeeld I doo,
And serue all three, and yet they spoyle me too.