Sonnet XXIII. Burst, burst, poor heart! Thou hast no longer hope

Thomas Lodge (1558–1625)

BURST, burst, poor heart! Thou hast no longer hope;

Captive mine eyes unto eternal sleep;

Let all my senses have no further scope;

Let death be lord of me and all my sheep!

For Phillis hath betrothèd fierce disdain,

That makes his mortal mansion in her heart;

And though my tongue have long time taken pain

To sue divorce and wed her to desert.

She will not yield, my words can have no power;

She scorns my faith, she laughs at my sad lays,

She fills my soul with never-ceasing sour,

Who filled the world with volumes of her praise.

In such extremes what wretch can cease to crave

His peace from death, who can no mercy have!