Part 92 (no matter how much it snows)

Sonnet 92 on this snowed-in afternoon:

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XCII

  But do thy worst to steal thyself away,

  For term of life thou art assured mine;

  And life no longer than thy love will stay,

  For it depends upon that love of thine.

  Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,

  When in the least of them my life hath end.

  I see a better state to me belongs

  Than that which on thy humour doth depend:

  Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,

  Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.

  O! what a happy title do I find,

  Happy to have thy love, happy to die!

    But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot?

    Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.

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Once again, the whole sonnet is teased full of turns (and turn-markers), and the main volta is withheld up to the very end, with its first indication coming at the but at the beginning of the closing couplet, and its culmination only with the yet in the final line.  The next sonnet tomorrow—