Poem by Michael Drayton

Sonnet 41. Why Do I Speak of Joy

    Love's Lunacy

Why do I speak of joy, or write of love,
When my heart is the very den of horror,
And in my soul the pains of Hell I prove,
With all his torments and infernal terror?
What should I say? What yet remains to do?
My brain is dry with weeping all too long,
My sighs be spent in uttering my woe,
And I want words wherewith to tell my wrong;
But, still distracted in Love's lunacy,
And, bedlam-like, thus raging in my grief,
Now rail upon her hair, then on her eye,
Now call her Goddess, then I call her thief,
    Now I deny her, then I do confess her, 
    Now do I curse her, then again I bless her.

1. Sonnet 23. Love, Banish'd Heav'n
2. Sonnet 36. Thou Purblind Boy
3. Sonnet 45. Muses, which Sadly Sit about My Chair
4. Sonnet 16. Mongst all the Creatures in this Spacious Round
5. Sonnet 42. Some Men there Be which like My Method Well

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