Sonnet LXI. To none but to Prometheus, me compare!

Barnabe Barnes (1569?–1609)

TO none but to PROMETHEUS, me compare!

From sacred heaven, he stole that holy fire.

I, from thine eyes, stole fire! My judgements are

For to be bound, with chains of strong Desire,

To that hard rock of thy thrice cruel heart!

The ceaseless waves, which on the rocks do dash

Yet never pierce, but forcèd, backward start;

Those be these endless tears, my cheeks which wash!

The vulture, which is, by my goddess’ doom,

Assigned to feed upon mine endless liver;

Despair, by thee procured! which leaves no room

For JOCULUS to jest with CUPID’s quiver.

This swallows worlds of livers, spending few;

But not content—O god! shall this be true?