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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=37872" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sonnet 11</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=37872" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Sighing, and sadly sitting by my Love,<br> He ask't the cause of my hearts sorrowing,<br> Conjuring me by heavens etemall King<br>To tell the cause which me so much did move.<br>Compell'd: (quoth I) to thee will I confesse,<br> Love is the cause; and only love it is<br> That doth deprive me of my heavenly blisse.<br>Love is the paine that doth my heart oppresse.<br>And what is she (quoth he) whom thou do'st love?<br> Looke in this glasse (quoth I) there shalt thou see<br> The perfect forme of my faelicitie.<br>When, thinking that it would strange Magique prove,<br> He open'd it: and taking of the cover,<br> He straight perceav'd himseife to be my Lover.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Richard+Barnfield">Richard Barnfield</a></strong></div>

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