S O N N E T S.

O carue not with thy howers my loues faire brow,
Nor draw noe lines there with thine antique pen,
Him in thy course vntainted doe allow,
For beauties patterne to succeding men.
   Yet doe thy worst ould Time dispight thy wrong,
   My loue shall in my verse euer liue young.
A Womans face with natures owne hand painted,
Haste thou the Master Mistris of my passion,
A womans gentle hart but not acquainted
With shifting change as is false womens fashion,
An eye more bright then theirs,lesse false in rowling:
Gilding the obiect where-vpon it gazeth,
A man in hew all Hews.in his controwling,
Which steales mens eyes and womens soules amaseth.
And for a woman wert thou first created,
Till nature as she wrought thee fell a dotinge,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
   But since she prickt thee out for womens pleasure,
   Mine be thy loue and thy loues vse their treasure.
S O is it not with me as with that Muse,
Stird by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heauen it selfe for ornament doth vse,
And euery faire with his faire doth reherse,
Making a coopelment of proud compare
With Sunne and Moone,with earth and seas rich gems:
With Aprills first borne flowers and all things rare,
That heauens ayre in this huge rondure hems,
O let me true in loue but truly write,
And then beleeue me,my loue is as faire,
As any mothers childe,though not so bright
As those gould candells fixt in heauens ayer:
   Let them say more that like of heare-say well,
   I will not prayse that purpose not to sell.
C 22

[ Prev ] [ Contents ] [ Next ]