Delia: Sonnet 42

REade in my face a volume of dispayres,
The wailing Iliads of my tragicke woe;
Drawne with my blood, & printed with my cares,
VVrought by her hand that I haue honour'd so.
VVho whilst I burne, shee sings at my soules wrack,
Looking aloft from Turret of her pride:
There my soules Tyrant ioyes her, in the sack
Of her owne seate, whereof I made her guide.
There doe these smoakes that from affliction rise,
Serue as an incense to a cruell Dame;
A sacrifice thrice-gratefull to her eyes,
Because their powre serue to exact the same.
Thus ruines shee (to satisfie her will,)
The Temple, where her name was honour'd still.