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William Shakespeare (1564–1616).  The Oxford Shakespeare: Poems.  1914.

Sonnet CXIX.

“What potions have I drunk of Siren tears”


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,         5
Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed 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;  10
And ruin’d love, when it is built anew, 
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. 
  So I return rebuk’d to my content, 
  And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent. 


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