The Sonnets

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan

For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!

Isʼt not enough to torture me alone,

But slave to slavery my sweetʼst friend must be?

Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,

And my next self thou harder hast engrossʼd:

Of him, myself, and thee I am forsaken;

A torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossʼd:

Prison my heart in thy steel bosomʼs ward,

But then my friendʼs heart let my poor heart bail;

Whoeʼer keeps me, let my heart be his guard;

Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail:

And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,

Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.