Sonnet 339

What is the worst of this vile vexing plague
That I fair choked with spittle cease to be?
Far worse that it might here yet so assail
My love that foulest fate wrest her from me;
That every virtue that I prize be lost,
That sweetest day succumb to tyrant storm,
That precious jewel into the main be tossed
And death devour the finest flower earth bore.
These are the heavy thoughts my soul to bear,
This loss far greater than the world shall know
That such a worth of every measure fair
Take leave of light and to black shadows go.
Here so I state through might of living breath;
There lurks a fate that is far worse than death.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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