WHEREIN HE LIKENS HIMSELF UNTO A CITY BE-LEAGUERED AND CRIES HIS HEART TRAITOR

Peace! Give me peace! O iron-eyed despairs!
Is it not quite enough that Love, Death, Fate
Roar the red battle to my very gate,
But my soul must resound to tread of theirs?
And thou, O heart, at me alone that bares
Unfaithful fangs, what treasons congregate
Under thine auspices, unholy mate
Of my most fickle foes, my deadliest snares?
Love his most furtive missions hides in thee,
In thee her blind disasters Fate approves,
And Death repeats in whispers what for me
Rends the last shred of hope that lives and moves;
In thee misshapen thoughts arm to the teeth,
And thee for these I blame with my last breath.