Sonnet CCXLII:
Sweet sorceress, dear foe to every gift
God stored for action in my languid frame—
Gifts that, employed, might win a smile from fame,
And from much dross my golden little sift;
Why is my heavy heart so hard to lift?
My manly will so prostrate grown and tame,
That I would rather flutter round thy flame
Than reach the stars on wings resolved and swift?
Here, at thy feet, I squander all my days,
And lusty youth escapes unused the while,
And age is creeping on my weedy ways;
Is all this waste of life a demon’s guile,
To lure God’s servant towards an end that pays
No better wages than that mocking smile?
