Sonnet XXIII. My life’s preserver! hope of my heart’s bliss!

Richard Linche (fl. 1596–1601)

MY life’s preserver! hope of my heart’s bliss!

when shall I know the doom of life or death?

Hell’s fearful torments easier are, than this

soul’s agony, wherein I now do breathe.

If thou wouldst look! this my tear-stainèd face,

dreary and wan, far differing from what it was,

Would well reveal my most tormentful case,

and shew thy Fair, my Grief as in a glass.

Look, as a deer late wounded very sore,

among the herd, full heavily doth feed;

So do I live! expecting evermore,

when as my wounded heart should cease to bleed.

How patient then, would I endure the smart

Of pitchy-countenanced Death’s dead-doing dart!