Sonnet CXLVI:
If it console thee, Sweet, to be aware
That not alone thy grievous load is borne,
That every golden eve and silver morn
Vexes my spirit with its several care;
That every sigh with which you scent the air
Wakes a clear echo in my heart forlorn;
That when you shrink, my aching breast is torn
By the same edge, and one the wound we bear;
If this console thee, to thy bosom take
The doleful joy, and make its little light
Flicker around thee to delude thy sight,
Like those weird fires that from the masthead shake
Above the sallor, ere the tropic night
In flame and thunder on his vessel break.
