SONET.

HVGE hosts of thoughts imbattled in my breast,
Are euer busied with intestine warres,

And like to Cadmus earth-borne troupes at iarres,
Haue spoil'd my soule of peace, themselues of rest.
Thus forc'd to reape such seed as I haue sowne,
I (hauing interest in this doubtfull strife)
Hope much, feare more, doubt most, vnhappie life.
What euer side preuaile, I'm still orethrowne:
O neither life nor death! ô both, but bad
Imparadiz'd, whiles in mine owne conceit,
My fancies straight againe imbroyle my state,
And in a moment make me glad and sad.·
Thus neither yeelding quite to this nor that,
I liue, I die, I do I wot not what.

SONET.

THE thoughts of those I cannot but disproue,
Who basely lost their thraldome must bemone:
I scorne to yeeld my selfe to such a one,
Whose birth and vertue is not worth my loue.
No, since it is my fortune to be thrall,
I must be fettred with a golden band;
And if I die, I'le die by Hector's hand:
So may the victor's fame excuse my fall;
And if by any meanes I must be blind,
Then it shall be by gazing on the Sunne;
Oft by those meanes the greatest haue been wonne,
Who must like best of such a generous mind:
At least by this I haue allow'd of fame,
Much honour if I winne, if lose, no shame.

ELEGIE.

LET not the world beleeue th' accusing of my fate Tends to allure it to condole with me my tragick

state:

Nor that I haue sent foorth these stormie teares of

rage,

So by disburd'ning of my brest, my sorrowes to as

swage.

No, no, that serues for nought, I craue no such re

liefe,

Nor will I yield that any should be partners of my

griefe.

My fantasie to feed I only spend those teares : My plaints please me, no musicke sounds so sweetly in my eares,

I wish that from my birth I had acquainted bene Still with mishaps, and neuer had but woes and horrours seene:

Then ignorant of ioyes, lamenting as I do,

As thinking all men did the like, I might content me too.

But ah, my fate was worse: for it (as in a glasse) Show'd me, through little blinkes of blisse, the state wherein I was.

Which vnperfected ioyes, scarce constant for an houre,

Was like but to a watrie Sunne, that shines before a shoure.

For if I euer thought or rather dream'd of ioyes, That litle lightning but foreshow'd a thunder of annoyes:

It was but like the fruit that Tantalus torments, Which while he sees, and nought attains, his hunger but augments.

For so the shadow of that but imagin'd mirth, Cal'd all the crosses to record, I suffer'd since my

birth,

Which are to be bewail'd, but hard to be redrest : Whose strange effects may well be felt, but cannot be exprest.

Judge what the feeling was, when thinking on things

past,

I tremble at the torment yet, and stand a time agast. Yet do I not repent, but will with patience pine: For though I mourne, I murmure not, like men that do repine.

I graunt I waile my lot, yet I approue her will; What my soule's oracle thinkes good, I neuer shall thinke ill.

If I had onely sought a salue to ease my paines, Long since I had bewail'd my lot alongst th' Elysian plaines :

Yet mind I not in this selfe-louer-like to die,

As one that car'd not for her losse, so I my selfe were free.

No, may ten nights' annoyes make her one night

secure,

A day of dolors vnto her a moment's mirth procure: Or may a yeare's laments reioyce her halfe an houre, May seuen years' sorrows make her glad, I shal not think them soure.

And if she do delight to heare of my disease, Then ô blest I, who so may haue th' occasion her to please :

For now the cause I liue, is not for loue of life, But onely for to honour her that holds me in this strife.

And ere those vowes I make do vnperform'd escape, This world shal once againe renuerst resume her shapelesse shape.

But what, what haue I vow'd! my passions were too strong,

As if the mildest of the world delighted to do

wrong:

As she whom I adore with so deuote a mind, Could rest content to see me sterue, be glad to see me pin'd.

No, no, she wailes my state, and would appease my

cares,

Yet interdited to the Fates, conformes her will to

theirs.

Then ô vnhappie man, whom euen thy saint would

saue,

And yet thy cruell destinie doth damne thee to the

graue.

This sentence then may serue for to confound my

feares,

Why burst I not my brest with sighs, and drowne mine eyes with tears?

Ah, I haue mourn'd so much, that I may mourn no

more,

My miseries passe numbring now, plaints perish in their store.

The meanes t' vnlode my brest doth quite begin to

faile;

For being drunke with too much dole, I wot not how to waile.

And since I want a way my anguish to reueale,
Of force contented with my Fate, I'le suffer and

conceale.

And for to vse the world, euen as my loue vs'd me, I'le vse a count'nance like to one, whose mind from grief were free.

For when she did disdaine, she show'd a smiling face,

Euen then when she denounc'd my death, she seem'd to promise grace.

So shall I seeme in show my thoughts for to re

pose,

Yet in the center of my soule shall shroud a world of woes:

Then wofull brest and eyes your restlesse course controule,

And with no outward signes betray the anguish of my soule.

Eyes, raine your shoures within, arrowze the Earth

no more,

Passe drowne with a deluge of teares the brest ye burnt before:

Brest, arme your selfe with sighes, if ore weake to defend,

Then perish by your proper fires, and make an honest end.