At length into thy hands I come—to die;
For sure I am that ev'n the poor relief
Of lightening with laments my weight of grief,
Is a desire thy rigour will deny.
How my life has so long been borne, or why
So guardedly sustained, I cannot tell,
Unless for proof how willingly and well
The sword will act that cuts so firm a tie.
My tears have fallen where barrenness and drought
Small fruit have yielded, let what I have wept
For thee suffice—their wasted springs have kept
Pace with my pining; but if still you crave
Tears, cruel Lady, be they henceforth sought
Where the yew weeps o'er Garcilasso's grave!