Sonnet 94: Grief Find The Words

Grief find the words, for thou hast made my brain So dark with misty vapors, which arise From out thy heavy mold, that inbent eyes Can scarce discern the shape of mine own pain. Do thou then (for thou canst) do thou complain For my poor soul, which now that sickness tries, Which ev'n to sense, sense of itself denies, Though harbingers of death lodge there his train. Or if thy love of plaint yet mine forbears, As of a caitiff worthy so to die, Yet wail thyself, and wail with causeful tears, That though in wretchedness thy life doth lie, Yet growest more wretched than thy nature bears By being plac'd in such a wretch as I.