Sonnet 119

What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,

Distill’d from limbecks foul as hell within,

Applying fears to hopes and hopes to fears,

Still losing when I saw myself to win.

What wretched errors hath my heart committed,

Whilst it hath thought itself so blessèd never?

How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted

In the distraction of this madding fever?

O benefit of ill, now I find true

That better is by evil still made better,

And ruin’d love, when it is built anew,

Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.

So I return rebuked to my content,

And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent.

What faith I’ve had in sirens—

Swum how far in their waters?

Lost how many thought would-be wins,

Hopes dashed, struck by fears?

How many errors have I made, heart,

While you believed we were blessed?

How many times cast out of the lucky world’s orbit,

As though cursed?

Health through sickness: now I see

That hurt makes the heart grow stronger.

Evil energizes good, and from war we flee

To cities that we build greater.

So I’ve found a home away from hurt: preserving

My seeds of love for someone more deserving.