Sonnet 33

I Might, vnhappy word, (woe me) I might,
And then would not, or could not see my blisse:
Tyll now, wrapt in a most infernall Night,
I finde, how heauenly day (wretch) did I misse;
Hart rent thy selfe, thou doost thy selfe but right.
No louely Paris made thy Helen his,
No force, no fraude, robd thee of thy delight,
No Fortune of thy fortune Author is;
But to my selfe, my selfe did giue the blow,
While too much wit forsooth so troubled me,
That I respects for both our sakes must showe.
And could I not by rysing morne fore-see,
How faire a day was neere, (ô punisht eyes)
That I had beene more foolish, or more wise.