Richard Lovelace.

Sir THOMAS WORTLEY'S Sonnet Answered.

The Sonnet.

                                  No more
    Thou little winged Archer, now no more
                                  As heretofore,
    Thou maist pretend within my breast to bide,
                                  No more,
    Since Cruell Death of dearest Lyndamore
                                  Hath me depriv'd,
    I bid adieu to Love, and all the world beside.

                                  Go, go ;
    Lay by thy quiver and unbend thy Bow
                                  Poore sillie Foe,
    Thou spend'st thy shafts but at my breast in Vain,
                                  Since Death
    My heart hath with a fatall Icie Deart
                                  Already slain,
    Thou canst not ever hope to warme her wound,
                                  Or wound it o're againe.

The Answer.

    Thou witty Cruell Wanton, now againe,
                                  Through ev'ry Veine,
    Hurle all your lightning, and strike ev'ry Dart.
    Before I feele this pleasing, pleasing paine,
                                  I have no Heart,
    Nor can I live but sweetly murder'd with
                                  So deare, so deare a smart.

                                  Then flye,
    And kindle all your Torches at her Eye,
                                  To make me Dye
    Her Martyr, and put on my Roabe of Flame :
                                  So I
    Advanced on my blazing Wings on high,
                                  In Death became
    Inthroan'd a Starre, and Ornament unto
                                  Her glorious glorious name.

Lovelace, Richard.  The Poems of Richard Lovelace.
London: Unit Library, Ltd., 1904.  73-75.

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