119
What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,
Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within,
Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,
Still losing when I saw myself to win! 4
What wretched errors hath my heart committed,
Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never!
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted,
In the distraction of this madding fever! 8
O benefit of ill! now I find true
That better is by evil still made better;
And ruin'd love, when it is built anew,
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. 12
So I return rebuk'd to my content,
And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent.
120
That you were once unkind befriends me now,
And for that sorrow, which I then did feel,
Needs must I under my transgression bow,
Unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel. 4
For if you were by my unkindness shaken,
As I by yours, you've pass'd a hell of time;
And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken
To weigh how once I suffer'd in your crime. 8
O, that our night of woe might have remember'd
My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits,
And soon to you, as you to me, then tender'd
The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits! 12
But that your trespass now becomes a fee;
Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.
2 limbecks: alembics, vessels for distillation
4 Still . . . win: winning new loves but losing the old
7 How . . . fitted; Cf. n.
120.8 weigh: consider
9, 10 Cf. n.
11 then tender'd: then had I tendered
13 fee: payment, recompense
