Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 93

O fate, O fault, O curse, child of my bliss;
     What sobs can give words grace my grief to show?
     What ink is black enough to paint my woe?
Through me, wretch me, even Stella vexed is.
Yet Truth—if caitiff’s breath may call thee—this
     Witness with me; that my foul stumbling so
     From carelessness did in no manner grow;
But wit, confused with too much care, did miss.
     And do I then myself this vain ‘scuse give?
I have (live I, and know this?) harmed thee;
Though worlds ’quit me, shall I myself forgive?
Only with pains my pains thus eased be,
     That all thy hurts in my heart’s wrack I read;
     I cry thy sighs, my dear; thy tears I bleed.