Sonnet VIII: He Paints Out His Torment

Sweet, to my cursed life some favour show,
Or let me not, accursed, in life remain:
Let not my senses, sense of life retain,
Since sense doth only yield me sense of woe.
For now mine eyes only your frowns do know;
Mine ears hear nothing else but your disdain;
My lips taste nought but tears; and smell is pain,
Banished your lips, where Indian odours grow.
And my devoted heart, your beauty's slave,
Feels nought but scorn, oppressions, and distress;
Made e'en of wretchedness the wretched cave,
Nay, too, too wretched for vild wretchedness.
For even sad sighs, as loathing there to rest,
Struggle for passage from my grief-swoln breast.