“Sonnet (I’m tir’d of this mortality…)” by John William Polidori
John W. Polidori
From Ximenes, the Wreathe, and Other Poems, pg. 165
I’m tir’d of this mortality—for years
I scorn’d this nature; for methought I saw
Nought but the marks of virtue caused by fears
Of what the stronger might make into law.
Methought that souls, like the cameleon’s skin,
Could every hue invest—the hero, knave,
Or any mask that could a purpose win,
Or help the various plot of passion’s slave.
And now that I have found some who perform
The noblest acts, not for the use alone,
But that their natures form’d in virtue’s mould.
I scorn mortality, which cannot form
A word worthy of virtue’s heavenly throne,
At such a sight my feeling’s to unfold.