If then, Ganymede, love enters at the
eye, harbors in the heart, and will neither be driven out with physic
nor reason, pity me, as one whose malady hath no salve but from thy
sweet self, whose grief hath no ease but through thy grant; and think
I am a virgin who is deeply wronged when I am forced to woo, and
conjecture love to be strong, that is more forcible than nature. Thus
distressed unless by thee eased, I expect either to live fortunate by
thy favor, or die miserable by thy denial. Living in hope. Farewell.
She that must be thine,
or not be at all,
Phoebe."
[Footnote 1: wrestles.]
To this letter she annexed this sonnet:
_Sonetto_
My boat doth pass the straits
of seas incensed with fire,
Filled with forgetfulness;
amidst the winter's night,
A blind and careless boy,
brought up by fond desire,
Doth guide me in the sea
of sorrow and despite.
For every oar he sets
a rank of foolish thoughts,
And cuts, instead of wave,
a hope without distress;
The winds of my deep sighs,
that thunder still for noughts,
Have split my sails with fear,
with care and heaviness.
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