Sonnet XIX. Thou tyrannising monarch that dost tire

Thomas Lodge (1558–1625)

THOU tyrannising monarch that dost tire

My love-sick heart through those assaulting eyes,

That are the lamps which lighten my desire!

If nought but death thy fury may suffice,

Not for my peace, but for thy pleasure be it,

That Phillis, wrathful Phillis, that repines me

All grace but death, may deign to come and see it,

And seeing grieve at that which she assigns me.

This only boon for all my mortal bane

I crave and cry for at thy mercy seat:

That when her wrath a faithful heart hath slain,

And soul is fled, and body reft of heat,

She might perceive how much she might command

That had my life and death within her hand.