Xliv

Read in my face a volume of despairs, The wailing Iliads of my tragic woe; Drawn with my blood, and painted with my cares, Wrought by her hand that I have honoured so. Who whilst I burn, she sings at my soul's wrack, Looking aloft from turret of her pride; There my soul's tyrant joys her in the sack Of her own seat, whereof I made her guide. There do these smokes that from affliction rise, Serve as an incense to a cruel dame; A sacrifice thrice-grateful to her eyes, Because their power serves to exact the same. Thus ruins she to satisfy her will, The temple where her name was honoured still.