Sonnet VII

Thy words are torture to me, that scarce grieve thee--That entire death shall null my entire thought;

And I feel torture, not that I believe thee,

But that I cannot disbelieve thee not.

Shall that of me that now contains the

Be by the very contained stars survived?

Thus were Fate all unjust.

Yet what truth

An all unjust Fate's truth from being believed?

Conjecture cannot fit to the seen worldA garment of its thought untorn or covering,

Or with its stuffed garb forge an

Without itself its dead deceit discovering;  So, all being possible, an idle thought may  Less idle thoughts, self-known no truer, dismay.