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XXXIV.
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make
me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds
o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their
rotten smoke?
'Tis not enough that through the cloud
thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak
That heals
the wound and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy
shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent,
yet I have still the loss:
The offender's sorrow
lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong
offence's cross.
Ah! but those tears are pearl which
thy love sheds,
And they are rich and ransom all ill
deeds.
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