Hers will I be, and only with this thought
Content myself although my chance be nought.
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That the dear she might take some pleasure of my pain,
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe:
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburned brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay;
Invention, Nature's child, fled stepdame Study's blows;
And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way.
Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:
"Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write."
Ya know, I really hate my English assignments most of the time, because they never inspire a good mood. Really, never. It's always crap like this. I mean, it makes sense, since it's the most prevalent topic and all, especially in writing, but damn!
moredit: "My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine,"
"I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,
And weep the more because I weep in vain."