SONNET XVII.
Whilst by her eyes pursued, my poor heart flew it
Into the sacred bosom of my Dearest;
She there, in that sweet sanctuary, slew it,
When it had hoped his safety to be nearest.
My faith of privilege could no whit protect it;
That was with blood, and three years' witness signed:
Whereby she had no cause once to suspect it,
For well she saw my love, and how I pined.
Yet no hope's letter would her brow reveal me,
No comfort's hue which falling spirits erecteth;
What boots to laws of succour to appeal me?
Ladies and tyrants never laws respecteth.
Then there I die, where I had hope to liven;
And by her hand that better might have given.
SONNET XVIII.
Look in my griefs! and blame me not to mourn,
From thought to thought that lead a life so bad:
FORTUNE'S orphan! Her's and the world's scorn
Whose clouded brow doth make my days so bad.
Long are their nights, whose cares do never sleep;
Loathsome their days, whom never sun yet joyed;
A pleasing grief impressed hath so deep,
That thus I live both day and night annoyed.
Yet since the sweetest root doth yield thus much,
Her praise from my complaint I must not part:
I love the effect, because the cause is such;
I praise her face, and blame her flinty heart.
Whilst that we make the world admire at us;
Her for disdain, and me for loving thus.
