Sonnet LXXIV

I am already wearied with thinking

of how my thoughts are never weary of you,

and how I’ve not abandoned life itself yet,

to flee so heavy a weight of sighs:



and how my tongue is never lacking sound

to speak of your face and your hair,

and your lovely eyes I always talk of,

calling on your name day and night:



and how my feet are never tired and weary

of following your footsteps everywhere,

spending so many paces uselessly:



and how from it comes all the ink and paper

where I go writing of you: if that is wrong,

it is Love’s fault, not a defect of my art.