Sonnet XII
Chlll’d by unkind Honora’s alter’d eye,
“Why droops my heart with pining woe forlorn,”
Thankless for much of good?-what thousands, born
To ceaseless toll beneath this wintry sky,
Or to brave deathful oceans surging high, [5]
Or fell Disease’s fever’d rage to mourn,
How blest to them would seem my destiny!
How dear the comforts my rash sorrows scorn! —
Affection is repaid by causeless hate!
A plighted love is changed to cold disdain! [10]
Yet suffer not thy wrongs to shroud thy fate,
But turn, my soul, to blessings which remain;
And let this truth the wise resolve create,
The Heart estranged no anguish can regain.
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