S O N N E T S.

As I by yours , y'haue past a hell of Time,
And I a tyrant haue no leasure taken
To waigh how once I suffered in your crime.
O that our night of wo might haue remembred
My deepest sence,how hard true sorrow hits,
And soone to you,as you to me then tendred
The humble salue,which wounded bosomes fits!
   But that your trespasse now becomes a fee,
   Mine ransoms yours,and yours must ransome mee.
T IS better to be vile then vile esteemed,
When not to be,receiues reproach of being,
And the iust pleasure lost,which is so deemed,
Not by our feeling,but by others seeing.
For why should others false adulterat eyes
Giue saluation to my sportiue blood?
Or on my frailties why are frailer spies;
Which in their wils count bad what I think good?
Noe,I am that I am,and they that leuell
At my abuses,reckon vp their owne,
I may be straight though they them-selues be beuel
By their rancke thoughtes,my deedes must not be shown
   Vnlesse this general euill they maintaine,
   All men are bad and in their badnesse raigne.
T Thy guift,,thy tables,are within my braine
Full characterd with lasting memory,
Which shall aboue that idle rancke remaine
Beyond all date euen to eternity.
Or at the least,so long as braine and heart
Haue facultie by nature to subsist,
Til each to raz'd obliuion yeeld his part
Of thee,thy record neuer can be mist:
That poore retention could not so much hold,
Nor need I tallies thy deare loue to skore,
Therefore to giue them from me was I bold,
H 2 To

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