The Fifth Decade. Sonnet VIII. Dear to my soul! then, leave me not forsaken!

Henry Constable (1562–1613)

DEAR to my soul! then, leave me not forsaken!

Fly not! My heart within thy bosom sleepeth!

Even from myself and sense I have betaken

Me unto thee (for whom my spirit weepeth).

And on the shore of that salt teary sea,

Couched in a bed of unseen seeming pleasure,

Where, in imaginary thoughts, thy fair self lay—

But being wak’d, robbed of my life’s best treasure,

I call the heavens, air, earth, and seas to hear

My love! my truth! and black disdained estate!

Beating the rocks with bellowings of despair;

Which still with plaints, my words reverberate.

Sighing, “Alas, what shall become of me?”

Whilst ECHO cries, “What shall become of me?”