Clear eyes once filled with light, now grayer are,
And heated breath anon cools from her face.
She lieth ill, and dare not I to pace
Forth to revenge on those gave her this care.
I silent sit, hoping that ease she share,
Though well I know her soul already race
Far from these shores, eternity to chase,
That is forbid to we who form still wear.
O Love, o will, fair ghost that did me guide,
What might I beg that thou to me return?
My sins, mine ills, thee unworthy did chide,
And now alone I am, until I burn.
What pity might I win that I could claim?
Virtue late to a soul make no sin tame.
8. form: The form/body as opposed to the more ‘essential’ idea (the Neoplatonic soul that returns to the ultimate memory - God).
13. “What pity might I win”: The first sonnet of Sidney’s Astrophel and Stella announces as part of his intention that “knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain.”