Sonnet XCVII. O why should Envy, with sweet Love consort?

Barnabe Barnes (1569?–1609)

O WHY should Envy, with sweet Love consort?

But that, with Love’s excess, Seven Sins unite!

Pride, that, in high respect of my delight,

I scorn all others! Lust, that with disport

In thought of her, I sometimes take comfort!

Wrath, that, with those, in secret heart I fight,

Which smile on her! and Envy, that, I spite

Such meats and wines, as to her lips resort

And touch that tongue, which I can never kiss!

Sloth, that, secure in too much love, I sleep;

And nuzzled so, am to be freed remiss!

And Covetous, I never mean can keep

In craving, wishing, and in working this;

Though still I kiss and touch, still touch and kiss!