Sonnet CCL:
CCL
As here I sit and dally with the pen
That daily sins against thy loveliness,
Weaving a rhyme that only can express
My want, and not thy worth, to coming men;
I ask myself again, and yet again,
What gentle error urges thee to bless
With praise a song which others prize as less
Than that which ripples from yon twittering wren?
Ah, ’tis but pity of my love; no cheer
Your taste can gather from a draught like mine—
These bitter lees of that which once was wine;
So, sweet deluder, with a patient ear,
You mark me stumble on from line to line,
And hide in wistful smiles a secret tear.
