Sonnet VIII Thou Poor Heart

Thou poor heart sacrific'd unto the fairest,

Hast sent the incense of thy sighs to heav'n;

And still against her frowns fresh vows repairest,

And made thy passions with her beauty ev'n.

And you mine eyes, the agents of my heart,

Told the dumb message of my hidden grief,

And oft with careful turns, with silent art,

Did treat the cruel Fair to yield relief.

And you my verse, the advocates of love,

Have follow'd hard the process of my case,

And urg'd that title which doth plainly prove My faith should win, if justice might have place.

Yet though I see that nought we do can move her, 'Tis not disdain must make me leave to love her.