Sonnet 52

O Fate, conjur'd to poure your worst on me!
O rigorous Rigour which doth all confound!
With cruell Hands ye have cut down the Tree,
And fruit with leaves have scattered on the Ground.
A little space of Earth my Love doth bound,
That Beauty which did raise it to the Skie,
Turn'd in disdained Dust, now low doth lye,
Deafe to my plaints, and senselesse of my wound.
Ah! did I live for this? ah! did I love?
And was't for this (fierce powers) she did excell,
That ere she well the Sweets of life did prove,
She should (too deare a guest) with Darknesse dwell?
Weake influence of Heaven! what faire is wrought,
Falls in the prime, and passeth like a Thought.