The Eighth Decade. Sonnet IV. My tears are true: though Others be divine

Henry Constable (1562–1613)

MY tears are true: though Others be divine,

And sing of wars, and Troy’s new rising frame;

Meeting heroic feet in every line,

That tread high measures in the Scene of Fame,

And I (though disaccustoming my Muse,

And sing but low songs, in an humble vein)

May one day raise my style, as others use;

And turn Elizon to a higher strain.

When reintombing from oblivious ages,

In better stanzas her surviving wonder:

I may opposed against the monster-rages

That part desert and excellence asunder:

That she, though coy, may yet survive to see,

Her beauty’s wonder lives again in me.