Sonnets, Etc, II

At length into thy hands I come—to die; For sure I am that ev'n the poor relief Of lightening with laments my weight of grief, Is a desire thy rigour will deny. How my life has so long been borne, or why So guardedly sustained, I cannot tell, Unless for proof how willingly and well The sword will act that cuts so firm a tie. My tears have fallen where barrenness and drought Small fruit have yielded, let what I have wept For thee suffice—their wasted springs have kept Pace with my pining; but if still you crave Tears, cruel Lady, be they henceforth sought Where the yew weeps o'er Garcilasso's grave!