Sonnet 6. [My paine still smother’d in my grieved brest]
My paine still smother’d in my grieved brest,
Seekes for some ease, yet cannot passage finde,
To be discharged of this unwelcome guest,
When most I strive, more fast his burthens binde.
Like to a Ship on Goodwins cast by winde,
The more shee strive, more deepe in Sand is prest,
Till she be lost: so am I in this kind
Sunck, and devour’d, and swallow’d by unrest.
Lost, shipwrackt, spoyld, debar’d of smallest hope,
Nothing of pleasure left, save thoughts have scope,
Which wander may; goe then my thoughts and cry:
Hope’s perish’d, Love tempest-beaten, Joy lost,
Killing Despaire hath all these blessings crost;
Yet Faith still cries, Love will not falsifie.
Line 5. Goodwins: Goodwin Sands, shifting sands at the mouth off the Strait of Dover, a common scene of shipwrecks.
Line 9. spolyd: spoiled.
