What potions have I drunk of Siren tears, Distilled 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 blessd 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 ruined 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.
Другие названия этого текста
- Shakespeare - Sonnet 119 (0)
- William Shakespeare - Sonnet 119 (0)
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