Sonnet. 41 (Sonnet 41)

WHy do I speake of ioy, or write of loue,
When my heart is the very den of horror,
And in my soule the paines of hell I proue,
With all his torments and infernall terror?
What should I say, what yet remaines to do?
My braine is drie with weeping all too long,
My sighes be spent in yttring of my woe,
And I want words wherewith to tell my wrong:
But still distracted in Loues lunacie,
And bedlam-like thus rauing in my griefe,
Now raile vpon her haire, now on her eye,
Now call her Goddesse, then I call her theefe;
Now I deny her, then I do confesse her,
Now do I curse her, then againe I blesse her.