Sonnet 2

YE who so curiously do paint your Thoughts,
Enlightning ev'ry Line in such a guise,
That they seem rather to have fallen from Skies,
Than of a humane Hand by mortall Draughts.
In one Part Sorrow so tormented lies,
As if his Life at ev'ry Sigh would part;
Love Here blindfolded stands with Bow and Dart,
…here Hope looks pale, Despaire with flaming Eyes:
Of my rude Pensill look not for such Art,
My Wit I find too little to devise
So high Conceptions to expresse my smart,
And some say Love is faign'd that's too too wise.
These troubled Words and Lines-confus'd you find,
Are like unto their Modell, my sick Mind.