Delia: Sonnet 10

O Then loue I, and draw this weary breath,
For her the cruell Fayre, within whose brow,
I written finde the sentence of my death,
In vnkind letters; wrought she cares not how.
O thou that rul'st the confines of the night,
Laughter-louing goddesse, worldly plesures Queen,
Intencrat that hart that sets so light,
The truest loue that euer yet was seene.
And cause her leaue to tryumph in this wise,
Vpon the prostrate spoyle of that poore hart:
That serues a Trophey to her conquering eyes,
And must theyr glory to the world impart.
Once let her know, sh' hath done enough to proue me,
And let her pitty if she cannot loue me.