Astrophil and Stella

Sonnet 93

O fate, O fault, O curse, child of my bliss!
   What sobs can give words grace my grief to show?
   What ink is black enough to paint my woe?
Through me (wretch me) even Stella vexed is.
Yet, truth, if caitiff's breath may call thee, this
   Witness with me, that my foul stumbling so,
   From carelesseness did in no manner grow;
But wit, confused with too much care, did miss.
   And do I, then, my self this vain 'scuse give?
I have (live I, and know this) harmed thee;
Tho' worlds 'quit me, shall I my self forgive?
Only with pains my pains thus eased be,
   That all thy hurts in my heart's wrack I read;
   I cry thy sighs, my dear, thy tears I bleed. 
Sir Philip Sidney

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