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| SONNET 119 |
| What potions have I drunk of Siren tears, |
| Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within, |
| Applying fears to hopes and hopes to fears, |
| Still losing when I saw myself to win! |
| What wretched errors hath my heart committed, |
| Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never! |
| How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted |
| In the distraction of this madding fever! |
| O benefit of ill! now I find true |
| That better is by evil still made better; |
| And ruin'd love, when it is built anew, |
| Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. |
| So I return rebuked to my content |
| And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent. |
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