Sonnet 39 - If I were given

If I were given to mirth 'twould be more cross

Thus to bee robbed of my chiefest joy;

But silently I bear my greatest loss:

Who's used to sorrow, grief will not destroy;

Nor can I as these pleasant wits enjoy

My own framed words, which I account the dross

Of purer thoughts, or reckon them as moss

While they (wit-sick) themselves to breathe employ,

Alas, think I, your plenty shows your want,

For where most feeling is, words are more scant,

Yet pardon me, live, and your pleasure take,

Grudge not if I, neglected, envy show

'Tis not to you that I dislike do owe,

But crossed myself, wish some like me to make.