Sonnet XLVIII My Cynthia

My Cynthia hath the waters of mine eyes The ready handmaids on her grace attending That never fall to ebb, nor ever dries,

For to their flow she never grants an ending.

Th'Ocean never did attend more duly Upon his Sovereign's course, the night's pale Queen,

Nor paid the impost of his waves more truly,

Than mine to her in truth have ever been.

Yet nought the rock of that hard heart can move,

Where beat these tears with zeal, and fury driveth;

And yet I rather languish in her love Than I would joy the fairest she that liveth.

I doubt to find such pleasure in my gaining As now I taste in compass of complaining.