Sonnet CLXXII

SONNET CLXXII.
 
Dolci ire, dolci sdegni e dolci paci.
 
HE CONSOLES HIMSELF WITH THE THOUGHT THAT HE WILL BE ENVIED BY POSTERITY.
 
 
Sweet scorn, sweet anger, and sweet misery,Forgiveness sweet, sweet burden, and sweet ill;Sweet accents that mine ear so sweetly thrill,That sweetly bland, now sweetly fierce can be.[Pg 183]Mourn not, my soul, but suffer silently;And those embitter'd sweets thy cup that fillWith the sweet honour blend of loving stillHer whom I told: "Thou only pleasest me."Hereafter, moved with envy, some may say:"For that high-boasted beauty of his dayEnough the bard has borne!" then heave a sigh.Others: "Oh! why, most hostile Fortune, whyCould not these eyes that lovely form survey?Why was she early born, or wherefore late was I?"
 
Nott. 
 
Sweet anger, sweet disdain, and peace as sweet,Sweet ill, sweet pain, sweet burthen that I bear,Sweet speech as sweetly heard; sweet speech, my fair!That now enflames my soul, now cools its heat.Patient, my soul! endure the wrongs you meet;And all th' embitter'd sweets you're doomed to shareBlend with that sweetest bliss, the maid to greetIn these soft words, "Thou only art my care!"Haply some youth shall sighing envious say,"Enough has borne the bard so fond, so true,For that bright beauty, brightest of his day!"While others cry, "Sad eyes! how hard your fate,Why could I ne'er this matchless beauty view?Why was she born so soon, or I so late?"
 
Anon. 1777.

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