Chapter XXXII

After I had written this poem, I received the visit of a friend whom I counted as second unto me in the degrees of friendship, and who, moreover, had been united by the nearest kindred to that most gracious creature. And when we had a little spoken together, he began to solicit me that I would write somewhat in memory of a lady who had died; and he disguised his speech, so as to seem to be speaking of another who was but lately dead: wherefore I, perceiving that his speech was of none other than that blessed one herself, told him that it should be done as he required. Then afterwards, having thought thereof, I imagined to give vent in a sonnet to some part of my hidden lamentations; but in such sort that it might seem to be spoken by this friend of mine, to whom I was to give it. And the sonnet saith thus: “Stay now with me,” etc.

This sonnet has two parts. In the first, I call the Faithful of Love to hear me. In the second, I relate my miserable condition. The second begins here, “Mark how they force.”

Stay now with me, and listen to my sighs, Ye piteous hearts, as pity bids ye do. Mark how they force their way out and press through; If they be once pent up, the whole life dies. Seeing that now indeed my weary eyes Oftener refuse than I can tell to you (Even though my endless grief is ever new), To weep and let the smothered anguish rise. Also in sighing ye shall hear me call On her whose blessèd presence doth enrich The only home that well befitteth her: And ye shall hear a bitter scorn of all Sent from the inmost of my spirit in speech That mourns its joy and its joy’s minister.