Sonnet XIX -- Betrayal

The lying heart of treason tears my soul
And spills forth wasted love on stony ground.
It rends my hope and splinters all that's whole:
Sends forth as lost that which I thought I'd found.

The masque of friendship hid a traitor's face:
The hand of friendship a usurper lent.
The blackest part of night would light the place
Wherein this Brutus sealed his dark intent.

So may She treat him with her proven wiles,
Consume his love and cast him from her spent.
To such an end he goes: this poet smiles
Full knowing of the fate to which he's bent.

	May he in his `love' find nought but pain
	And may his torment never end its reign.