Delia: Sonnet 27

STill in the trace of my tormented thought,
My ceaselesse cars must mattch on to my death:
Thy least regard too deerelie haue I bought,
Who to my comfort neuer deign'st a breath.
Why should'st thou stop thine cares now to my cryes,
Whose eyes were open, ready to oppresse me?
Why shutt'st thou not the cause whence al did rise,
Or heare me now, and seeke how to redresse me?
Iniurious DELIA, yet He loue thee still,
Whilst that I breathe in sorrow of my smart:
Ile tell the world that I deseru'd but ill,
And blame my selfe for to excuse thy hart.
Then iudge who sinnes the greater of vs twaine,
I in my loue, or thou in thy disdaine.