Sir Thomas Wortley's Sonnet Answered

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I.
 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.

 II.
 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.

 I.
 Againe,
Thou witty cruell wanton, now againe,
 Through ev'ry veine,
Hurle all your lightning, and strike ev'ry dart,
 Againe,
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.

 II.
 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.

© Richard Lovelace