Sonnet Xlvii: Read In My Face

Read in my face a volume of despairs, The wailing Iliads of my tragic woe, Drawn with my blood and printed with my cares Wrought by her hand, that I have honor'd 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 serve to exact the same. Thus ruins she, to satisfy her will, The Temple where her name was honor'd still.