The First Decade. Sonnet VIII. Much Sorrow in itself my love doth move

Henry Constable (1562–1613)

MUCH Sorrow in itself my love doth move,

More my Despair to love a hopeless bliss;

My Folly most, to love whom sure to miss;

O help me, but this last grief to remove!

All pains, if you command, it joy shall prove;

And wisdom to seek joy. Then say but this,

“Because my pleasure in thy torment is;

I do command thee, without hope to love!”

So when this thought my sorrow shall augment,

That my own folly did procure my pain,

Then shall I say, to give myself content,

“Obedience only made me love in vain.

It was your will, and not my want of wit;

I have the pain, bear you the blame of it!”