Sonnet 92

O Fate or fault, O curst child of my blisse,
VVhat sobs can giue wordes grace my griefe to show?
VVhat inke is black enough to paint my woe?
Through mee, wretch mee, euen Stella vexed is:
Yet Trueth, if Caitiues brath might call thee his,
VVitnes with mee, that I foole stumbling fell:
For carelesnes did in no manner growe,
But wit confusd with too much care did misse.
And do I then my selfe this vaine scuse giue:
I do sweete Loue, and knowe this harmed thee.
The world quit mee, shal I my selfe forgiue?
Onely with paines thy paines thus eased be:
That all thy hurtes in my hearts wracke I reed
I crye thy sighs (my deare) thy teares I bleed.