Sonnet CCXIII:
White as this paper was my lady’s mind
Ere with my bold and desecrating hand
I scrawled its face with characters that stand
In pity’s sight till weeping makes her blind.
I wrote—what wrote I?—things that you may find
Hissed at in whispers, humbled with a brand,
Skulking from daylight and the law’s command,
Death-doomed by warrant sealed and countersigned.
Ah! Wretch, what found I in a work like this,
To drug my ghastly memories of sin,
By counterbalance to the pain within?
Only this solace, this most wretched bliss,
That mercy’s lips thy golden head shall kiss,
And thy atonement my salvation win.
