It were to exculpate my sin,
Yet guilt were never fallow,
Because, while patience grew so thin
My lies were never shallow,
And even if I hoped to win
Mercy bestow no aloe.
Thus I must suffer as I burn,
It were a consequence
Of such a thing for which I yearn
That were no decadence
But too sublime to bear return,
So thence come mine offense.
My mind return, despite all will,
Unto that former joy’s
Appurtenance, advertent still
Though constancy to noise
Devolve itself, that with no skill
My ragged pen employs.