Collect my thoughts, myself; myself compose,
Weigh, balance in thy brassy merchant's scale
The ringing coin that I might bring at sale
'Gainst leaden silence of this, thy repose.
My int'rest rate is more than thou'dst suppose,
Whilst at men's speculation thou dost rail:
Canst not their own defin'd rewards assail,
Nor yet avail thee of any of those.
If I would tell thee, simple and direct,
Thy fortune, as at money changer's told
(And unsupportable in metaphor)
What it may fall to their hands to expect,
'Tis neither sack of dung nor bag of gold:
But they leave nothing to save myself for.
The Glass
Today's despair doth mirror what I had hop'd,
Looking as into an half-empty glass;
This fullness welling in my eyes shall pass,
And apparition after which I grop'd.
I see it now; trivial gifts held dear
To share...receiv'd of you and not of thee
Do chafe the surface of my misery,
New lustre add to images gone blear.
To shatter this reflection would be vain...
For fear I am not thereby flattered...
Toward you I slant with an eccentric grace,
And mark thy absence in my bevell'd pane.
You fill small wants as if I mattered,
Which bringeth me my loss of thee to face.
Rosamunde del Shore A.S. XXXIII