SONNET LI.

AWAY with these self-loving lads,
Whom Cupid's arrow never glads;
Away, poor souls, that sigh and weep
In love of those that lie asleep:

For Cupid is a meadow God,

And forceth none to kiss the rod.

Sweet Cupid's shafts like destiny,
Do causeless good or ill decree;
Desert is borne out of his bow,
Reward upon his wing doth go;

What fools are they that have not known

That Love likes no laws but his own.

My songs they be of Cynthia's praise,

I wear her rings on holy days,

In every tree I write her name,
And every day I read the same.

Where Honour Cupid's rival is,
There miracles are seen of his.

If Cynthia crave her ring of me,
I blot her name out of the tree,

If doubt do darken things held dear,
Then well-fare nothing once a year.

For many run, but one must win,
Fools only hedge the Cuckoo in.

The worth that worthiness should move,
Is Love, that is the bow of love;
And Love as well thee foster can,

As can the mighty nobleman.

Sweet Saint, 'tis true you worthy be,
Yet without Love nought worth to me.

SONNET LXXXI.

UNDER a throne I saw a Virgin sit,

The red and white rose quartered in her face;
Star of the North, and for true guards to it,
Princes, Church, States, all pointing out her Grace.
The homage done her was not born of Wit,
Wisdom admir'd, Zeal took Ambition's place,

State in her eyes taught Order how to fit,

And fix confusion's unobserving race.

Fortune can here claim nothing truly great,

But that this princely creature is her seat.

SONNET LXXXII.

You that seek what life is in death,
Now find it air that once was breath.
New names unknown, old names gone:
Till time end bodies, but souls none.

Reader! then make time, while you be,
But steps to your eternity.

SONNET LXXXIV.

FAREWELL, Sweet boy, complain not of my truth;

Thy mother loved thee not with more devotion;
For to thy boy's play I gave all my youth;

Young Master, I did hope for your promotion.

While some sought honours, princes thoughts observing; Many wooed Fame, the child of pain and anguish;

Others judged inward good a chief deserving;

I in thy wanton visions joyed to languish.

I bow'd not to thy image for succession,
Nor bound thy bow to shoot reformed kindness;

Thy plays of hope and fear were my confession,
The spectacles to my life was thy blindness:

But Cupid now farewell, I will go play me
With thoughts that please me less, and less betray

me.

WRAPT UP,

SONNET XCVIII.

O Lord, in man's degeneration,
The glories of thy truth, thy joys eternal,
Reflect upon my soul dark desolation,
And ugly prospects o'er the sp'ri s infernal.
"Lord, I have sinned, and mine iniquity
Deserves this hell; yet, Lord, deliver me."

Thy power and mercy never comprehended,
Rest lively imaged in my conscience wounded:
Mercy to grace, and power to fear extended,
Both infinite, and I in both confounded;

"Lord, I have sinned, and mine iniquity
Deserves this hell; yet, Lord, deliver me."

If from this depth of sin, this hellish grave,
And fatal absence from my Saviour's glory,

I could implore his mercy, who can save,
And for my sins, not pains of sin, be sorry:
Lord, from this horror of iniquity,

And hellish grave, thou wouldst deliver me.

SONNET CV.

THREE things there be in Man's opinion dear,
Fame, many Friends, and Fortune's dignities:
False visions all, which in our sense appear,

To sanctify desire's idolatry.

For what is Fortune but a watery glass?
Whose crystal forehead wants a steely back,
Where rain and storms bear all away that was,
Whose ship alike both depths and shallows wreck.

Fame again, which from blinding power takes light,
Both Cæsar's shadow is, and Cato's friend;
The child of humour, not allied to right,

Living by oft exchange of winged end.

And many Friends, false strength of feeble mind,

Betraying equals, as true slaves to might;

Like echos still send voices down the wind,

But never in adversity find right.