Sonnet XVII. How then succeedeth that, amid this woe

Barnabe Barnes (1569?–1609)

HOW then succeedeth that, amid this woe,

(Where Reason’s sense doth from my soul divide)

By these vain lines, my fits be specified;

Which from their endless ocean, daily flow?

Where was it born? Whence, did this humour grow,

Which, long obscured with melancholy’s mist,

Inspires my giddy brains unpurified

So lively, with sound reasons, to persist

In framing tuneful Elegies, and Hymns

For her, whose names my Sonnets note so trims;

That nought but her chaste name so could assist?

And my Muse in first tricking out her limbs,

Found in her lifeless Shadow such delight;

That yet She shadows her, when as I write.