ALCILIA said, "She did not know my mind, Because my words did not declare my love!" Thus, where I merit most, least help I find; And her unkindness all too late I prove. Grant, LOVE! that She, of whom thou art neglected, May one day love, and little be respected! XXXVI. [Sidenote: _Amor est otiogorum negotium_.] The Cynic[9] being asked, "When he should love?" Made answer, "When he nothing had to do; For Love was Sloth!" But he did never prove By his experience, what belonged thereto. For had he tasted but so much as I, He would have soon reformed his heresy. XXXVII. O judge me not, sweet Love, by outward show Though sometimes strange I seem, and to neglect thee! Yet didst thou, but my inward Passions know, Thou shouldst perceive how highly I respect thee! "When looks are fixed, the heart ofttimes doth tremble! "Little loves he, that cannot much dissemble!" XXXVIII. Parting from thee! even from myself I part. Thou art the star, by which my life is guided! I have the body, but thou hast the heart! The better part is from itself divided. Thus do I live, and this I do sustain, Till gracious Fortune make us meet again! XXXIX. Open the sluices of my feeble eyes, And let my tears have passage from their fountain! Fill all the earth, with plaints! the air, with cries! Which may pierce rocks, and reach the highest mountain That so, LOVE'S wrath, by these extremes appeased; My griefs may cease, and my poor heart be eased. XL. "After long sickness, health brings more delight." "Seas seem more calm, by storms once overblown." "The day more cheerful, by the passed night." "Each thing is, by his contrary best known." "Continual ease is pain: Change sometimes meeter." "Discords in music make music sweeter." XLI. Fear to offend forbids my tongue to speak, And signs and sighs must tell my inward woe: But (ay the while) my heart with grief doth break, And she, by signs, my sorrow will not know. "The stillest streams we see in deepest fords; And Love is greatest, when it wanteth words." XLII. "No pain so great but may be eased by Art." "Though much we suffer, yet despair we should not." "In midst of griefs, Hope always hath some part; And Time may heal, what Art and Reason could not." O what is then this Passion I endure, Which neither Reason, Art, nor Time can cure? XLIII. Pale Jealousy! Fiend of the eternal Night! Misshapen creature, born before thy time! The Imp of Horror! Foe to sweet Delight! Making each error seem an heinous crime. Ah, too great pity! (were there remedy), That ever Love should keep Thee company! XLIV. [Sidenote: _Solstit: brumal._ _This Sonnet was devised upon the shortest day of the year._]