What if all words are the heaven's forethought,
by Mirza Beg
Which my soul to speak, from myself unknown?
That oft a sweetness or woe, of high wrought;
And a darkness too deep, too deep that frown.
What’s in a word, thou writ thy self to hide,
And pleases not thy self, nor ease thy woe.
Sweet love doth merry lover, never chide,
Thou but not grieve, on woe, ye never know.
And dost those joy delight, sorrows possess;
Doth every silence speaks, as oft means none?
Can a painted brook of silence be less
In beauty, or more, when ‘twas but undone?
If greatest words are those thou canst not say,
Can be those scarlet mean, sweet th’ roses gray?