Sonet 71

For eyes that are deliuer'd of their birth, And hearts that can complaine, none needs to care: I pitie not their sighes that pierce the ayre, To weepe at will were a degree of mirth: But he (ay me) is to be pitied most, Whose sorrowes haue attain'd to that degree, That they are past expressing, and can be Onely imagin'd by a man that's lost. The teares that would burst out yet are restrain'd, Th'imprison'd plaints that perish without fame, Sighs form'd and smoother'd ere they get a name, Those to be pitied are (ô griefe vnfain'd) Whil'st sighes the voice, the voice the sighs confounds, Then teares marre both, and all are out of bounds.