SONNET
My only love sprung from my only hate,Too early seen, and known too late:Prodigious birth of love it is to meThat I must love a loathed enemy.Without this be the miracle, the feat,The same, who through sharp fire and edge-tools,And boiling pitch was to his judgment brought,Yet living left them all behind at last:For he no farther seeks than just to standWhere those great flames do burn from thence to fetchHis fuel; there he does his passion feed:There doth he force his fancy’s utmost bent.But here is both fire and fuel wanting.There gentle hearts do live in blissful ignorance;There pity …